


Stop and Stare

by Saras_Girl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 78,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things. 2015 advent fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a story full of drama or conflict or clothes being ripped off in a frenzy. It is about peace and about that creeping sort of love that sneaks up on you while you think you are busy doing other things.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to Marie, for her unwavering support and motivational treats. And for the prompts!
> 
> For George, my lovely sister-in-law. I hope you enjoy the story and that you find a few moments of peace to enjoy it <3

**First of December – Frost on a window pane**  
  
  
  
Harry’s coffee has gone cold. It also seems to have turned, in what can have only been a moment of inattention, into red wine.  
  
“Oh,” he mumbles vaguely, stifling a yawn and taking another sip. “Never mind.”  
  
He leans back in his chair and continues to gaze straight ahead. In his direct eye line, a tall, beautiful window stretches up to the high ceiling and down to the polished floor. Framed in glossy mahogany, the glass is covered in a dizzying sprawl of icy patterns that glitter and glow as though lit from within. Some spiral across the smooth surface in perfect fractals, others carve and swoop in majestic arcs, and the ones in the centre of the glass form delicate silver feathers that immediately put him in mind of David, the African Grey parrot belonging to his most recent customer, Mrs Cobb.  
  
Harry stares at the icy feathers and smiles to himself, hoping that both the old lady and the bird are happy with their newly-completed project, a top-of-the-range bespoke tent that now sits at the bottom of their garden and allows them to look up through the transparent roof and gaze in complete comfort at the stars in the clear Cornish sky. Harry had managed to finish the project on time just hours ago, despite the lack of help from his staff—all three of whom had been called away to a big salvage and repair operation—and the well-intentioned but distracting attentions of Mrs Cobb herself, who has spent most of the week following him around with a list of questions.  
  
After running his own business for the best part of a decade, Harry is used to all kinds of efforts to derail his concentration, but Mrs Cobb has somehow still managed to prove a challenge. He’s a little bit tired now, of course, but that’s just the way things are. He’s a busy man with a successful company that does not run itself, and feeling a touch weary and sore at the end of the day only means he’s doing things properly. He thinks.  
  
Besides, he enjoys his work. It may have come as a surprise to his friends, his family and the Ministry that a post-war Harry Potter was no longer interested in running around after dark wizards, but as far as Harry himself was concerned, the change could not have come soon enough. He hadn’t had a plan when he’d borrowed Hermione’s extendable tent on the first day of his first free summer, but after dragging it all over the country for a month, curious seeds had begun to take root. He and the tent had travelled to isolated cliff tops, valleys and caves, where he had allowed himself to rest and breathe slowly after the horrors of the war and the chaotic emotion of the Burrow.  
  
Each location had, of course, presented its own unique set of requirements, and Harry had rolled up his sleeves and set to work on his little canvas home, finding not only that was he enjoying himself but that he had a knack for the job. By the time he came back to civilisation, ready to return to Hogwarts and complete his NEWTs, he had built up an impressive arsenal of extension charms and had improved his skills in Transfiguration dramatically enough to stun McGonagall into temporary silence.  
  
Ron had remarked that he had never seen anything so spectacular, at least until Harry had finally been persuaded to pitch up the tent on the lawn and Hermione had almost burst into tears on seeing his work for the first time. After that, of course, McGonagall’s shocked silence had never stood a chance.  
  
Two weeks after the end of his last term at Hogwarts, Harry had rented himself a little office in London and gone into business. Ten years later, Evans Amazing Living Spaces offers a wide range of small custom builds, everything from log cabins to wishing wells and barbecue pits, but Harry’s customised all-weather tents are still the biggest draw. He spends most days either in the office or out at sites all over the country, and when he’s not working, his time is distributed between various functions and balls, which he tolerates, and being the best uncle he can be to Rose, which he loves. With Teddy now in his first year at Hogwarts, Harry thinks he should have at least a little extra time for things like sleeping or just sitting around, but if he does have it, he has no idea where it is hiding itself.  
  
The trouble is, he has no idea how to say no to any commission, even the ridiculous ones, and there are plenty of those. He has the feeling that Ron and Hermione would be horribly disappointed if he were to dry up the stream of tales about some of his more nonsensical builds, and even Andromeda wheedles again and again to hear the story about the man who had employed Harry to build a garden shed in the shape of a giant turnip.  
  
“It was a pretty damn good turnip, too,” he murmurs to himself, taking another sip of wine and watching a flurry of coloured lights playing over the icy window.  
  
He sighs. Life is short. It’s too short not to have a turnip shed in your garden if you want one, and it’s too short to waste. As far as he can see it, he’s cheated death at least twice already, and who the fuck knows when his time is going to be up for real? No one knows, least of all him, and the only solution he can think of is to pack as much as he can into the time he has, because the alternative is horrifying, and though he fights as hard as he always does not to let his mind drift, it doesn’t matter, because all he can see is his parents. Fred Weasley. Mr and Mrs Granger, who are, at least, alive, but whose memories are damaged forever, leaving them terrifying moments when they do not know who they are or cannot recognise their own daughter.  
  
Harry pushes the unhelpful thoughts away and focuses on the delicate icy patterns once more. He yawns and scowls as a shiver runs all the way down from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. His head feels fuzzy and his arms and legs ache. Perhaps he should see a Healer... but then again, perhaps not. Hermione’s one and all she ever does is tell him that he needs to slow down.  
  
“Are you even listening to me, Potter?”  
  
Harry blinks at the sound of Draco’s voice and then grimaces. Draco only calls him ‘Potter’ when he’s particularly irritated with him these days, and he wonders just how long he has been staring at the window. As if on cue, a mass of sound surges in around him like water crashing through a fragile dam, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. There’s a small orchestra of some sort, over the top of which streams the clinking of glasses, the chatter and laughter of several hundred people, and the clack-stomp of formal shoes on polished wood.  
  
For several horrible seconds, he can’t remember what function this even is. What he does know is that he doesn’t want Draco to get up and find someone more interesting to talk to, so he shakes himself, squashing his anxiety and casting around the vast room for a clue. Finally, he spots the big, glowing banner, reading:  
  
 _‘The War Orphans Trust Presents... Swing Into Advent! Please Give Generously.’_  
  
Of course. It’s not an orchestra, it’s a swing band, and there’s Kingsley Shacklebolt on the dance floor, twirling that terrifying old lady from the Trust while his wife looks on with barely concealed amusement. He thinks he’s known about this one for a while, and he also thinks he has already given generously, but no doubt he can empty his pockets into one of the shiny silver collection buckets that are dotted about the place.  
  
“Back in the land of the living, are you?” Draco says, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s your age. Only one more Christmas before you turn thirty.”  
  
Harry pulls a face. “You’re older than me, you idiot.”  
  
“Yes, but the difference is, I don’t care. One day you will learn that with age comes wisdom, refinement, sophistication...”  
  
“Says the man who has wine all down his shirt,” Harry says, feeling delightfully childish and grinning when Draco glances down to check for the stain. “Made you look.”  
  
“I take it all back,” Draco says drily. “You actually seem to be regressing.”  
  
Harry shrugs, leaning back in his chair and watching the dancers. He fiddles with his half-empty glass. “What is this, anyway?”  
  
“It’s wine, Potter. And I need some more,” Draco says, and he rises from the table.  
  
“Stop it,” Harry says, looking up at him wearily. “Anyway, you should know this stuff.”  
  
“Oh, yes. Forgive my terrible lack of oenological education,” Draco says, folding his arms over his dress robes and a white shirt that is, in truth, absolutely pristine, just like always.  
  
“That’s not a real word.”  
  
Draco frowns, managing to look disdainful and baffled at the same time. “Yes, it is.”  
  
“How do you even know a word like that if you know fuck all about wine?” Harry asks, abandoning all concern for his fuzzy head and throwing back the rest of his drink in one go.  
  
“I know a lot of words. Don’t think for a moment that that means I do a lot of things,” Draco says.  
  
Taking Harry’s empty glass, he heads for the bar, and Harry watches him until he disappears into the crowds. He scans for people he knows or people he might actually like to talk to and comes up with very little. Kingsley is always interesting, of course, but he has far more important people to talk to than Harry at a night like this, and all the people he loves stopped coming to these bloody things years ago. If he’s honest, he has no idea where he’d be without Draco.  
  
When the Undersecretary to the Minister ambles over to his table, Harry suppresses a groan and wonders if Draco, now safely at the bar, had seen him coming. The man now pulling up a chair next to Harry’s is without doubt the dullest and most talkative individual Harry has ever met, and before Harry can even open his mouth to issue a greeting, he is launching into a story about the redecoration of his office.  
  
As he sits there with a fixed smile on his face and patiently waits for a gap in the conversation, he decides that Draco has most definitely jumped ship and left him to fend for himself. And that’s fine, he supposes, because he’ll just take his revenge at the next one of these things. He thinks there’s another one in a few days’ time, and Draco will definitely be in attendance.  
  
And maybe that should be strange, but it’s not. It’s been several years in the making, but Harry and Draco now have a relationship that is based entirely on sitting next to one another at functions. For reasons Harry has never been able to explain, they get on rather well in this setting and seem to gravitate towards one another without justification or need to understand.  
  
They don’t talk about their personal lives, they don’t talk about their work—in fact, Harry’s not sure if Draco has, or has ever had, a job—and they certainly don’t talk about Things from the Past. Enough has been said on the subject by everyone including Harry, and he’d rather not think about it at all. He doesn’t, save for the yearly spate of galas and benefits to honour the fallen, and most of the time he’d rather not think about it even at those times, but needs must, and while he doesn’t really believe the charities’ insistence that the whole thing would fall apart without him, he can’t quite bring himself to refuse when they reach out to him for an appearance or a speech or another horrifying calendar shoot. _Witch Weekly_ and the like can go and whistle, but anyone raising funds for a good cause has Harry quite firmly by the balls whether he likes it or not.  
  
What he does like is seeking out Draco and passing the time, in between the necessary chats with various important guests, by carping about what everyone else is wearing or doing, making stupid bets and pretending they know about wine. Draco, despite his fancy upbringing, is as clueless as Harry, but that doesn’t stop him from swishing a dry white around in his glass and insisting that it has ‘notes of Quidditch robes and fresh Shrivelfig.’  
  
Usually, at least. Harry frowns, glancing over the shoulder of the Undersecretary, who is still talking about paint colours and the perils of matching skirtings and door jambs. Draco is still lingering at the bar, and Harry doesn’t think he imagines the slight slump in his usually upright posture. He wonders if Draco has had a bad day. Wonders if he should ask about it.  
  
He won’t, of course, because that’s not what they do. They don’t talk about things like that. Real things. They don’t even _see_ each other in any other context but this. As far as Harry is concerned, seeing Draco in daylight and out of dress robes would be like seeing McGonagall in her underwear—unnecessary and downright disturbing.  
  
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Harry says when the Undersecretary pauses to gulp his drink. “Once when I was—”  
  
When he is quickly cut off again, Harry shrugs and goes back to not-really listening. Draco is looking over at their table now, glasses in hands, and Harry looks back at him, pushing out a third chair from the table with his foot. Draco scowls and then begins to make his way across the floor, and it doesn’t escape Harry’s notice that the glasses he is carrying are very large and very full of wine.  
  
Maybe it’s been a very bad day, he thinks, but he doesn’t have time for that. He doesn’t have time for another person in his life, and he can’t help but suspect that if he were to relax the boundaries just a little bit, their contained little friendship would explode and get all over everything. Not that he needs to worry. Draco just needs to stay in his box, and all will be fine. If he wants to get drunk tonight then that’s his business.  
  
It isn’t as though Harry has to get drunk, too. He has an early start tomorrow, and self control. Lots of it.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Draco never smiles. Harry wonders why that is. He closes one eye in order to merge the two Dracos that he is seeing into one, and the one Draco gives him a strange, strange look.  
  
“What’s the matter with you?” Harry demands.  
  
“Nothing,” Draco says carefully. “You are drunk.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Harry says. He turns his one focused eye to the table, where four enormous empty wine glasses sit dangerously close to his elbow. “Oh... where’s... thingummy gone?”  
  
Draco frowns. “The Undersecretary?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“His wife came and took him away... possibly nine, ten hours ago,” Draco says, copying Harry’s expression and screwing up one grey eye. “It was wonderful. He has a wife. That’s funny.”  
  
“It wasn’t that long,” Harry insists. “People are still dancing. People with wives.”  
  
“Indeed,” Draco says, and he drains his glass in such an elegant way that Harry feels sort of cross inside.  
  
Draco is so strange. He’s not... bumpy... like a real person. A real person like Ron or Hermione or Mrs Cobb. He’s sharp and shiny and sort of crunchy. And what the fuck does he do when he’s not here with Harry? Perhaps he doesn’t even exist when there are no functions to attend. Maybe he really does have a box. Maybe he gets stored away in it to keep him in mint condition, Harry thinks vaguely. Vacuum packed Malfoy, like new, all snippy comments intact.  
  
“You’re doing that thing again,” Draco says irritably.  
  
“Hm?  
  
“Yes, that,” Draco says, peering into his empty glass. “I’ve got animals with longer attention spans than you.”  
  
“Animals?” Harry laughs. His elbow slips from under him and he takes a moment to regain his balance. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a pet.”  
  
“Why is that so difficult to believe?” Draco demands. “You are very, very rude.”  
  
“I’m... yeah,” Harry mumbles, lips feeling suddenly sticky. “I am. But you don’t like animals.”  
  
Draco regards him with a rather hurt expression. “I might.”  
  
“But the Hiffogripp...” Harry says with a little snort that startles him.  
  
“That was a very long time ago,” Draco says, scowling and leaning forward heavily on his elbows, pushing his fingers into his hair with a dramatic sigh. “And I know about that Hippogriff. It got away. It was a naughty Hippogriff. Good for that Hippogriff. And I do like animals. Lots of them.”  
  
Harry frowns, confused. “You like them a lot or you have a lot of them?”  
  
“Both. Why are you so curious?”  
  
Harry blinks slowly. “I don’t know. Maybe I am drunk.”  
  
“Yes. And you don’t need to know anything about my animal sanctuary. It’s a secret. E un segreto. det er en hemmelighet. Es ist verboten.”  
  
“I might be tight as an owl, Draco, but I’m pretty sure ‘verboten’ means ‘forbidden’, not ‘secret’,” Harry says slowly. “Also, what was that middle one?”  
  
“Norwegian, I think,” Draco says, swaying slightly in time to the slow music from the band.  
  
Several couples are still rotating around the dance floor, but as Harry’s eyes focus in and out, he realises that the evening is definitely winding to a close. He can’t remember whether or not he put any money in the silver tins, and that can only be Draco’s fault. Draco and his wine. And his animals. Something prickles in the back of Harry’s mind and he pulls his attention back to the man opposite him.  
  
“You said an animal sanctuary.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What, in the grounds of the Manor, is it?” Harry laughs, imagining, for some reason, the ark crashing into the lake or duck pond or whatever they have there, and Draco presiding over it like some kind of platinum blond Noah.  
  
“Yes, as a matter of fact, and who in the name of buggery fuck is Noah?” Draco says, puzzled.  
  
Harry doesn’t remember saying that part out loud. Perhaps he didn’t and Draco is just lying. And telepathic. He shudders.  
  
“Never mind that,” he says, gesturing with a sweeping hand and knocking two wine glasses to the floor with a crash. Draco stares at him as though he’s going to tell. “I don’t believe you.”  
  
Draco folds his arms. “Fine. Come to the Manor and see for yourself.”  
  
“Fine. I will,” Harry says, folding his arms too and hoping he’s imagining the fact that the chandelier seems to be spinning around above his head. He also hopes he’s imagining the fact that Draco’s eyes look all silvery in the light, like feathers on glass made of ice.  
  
“Good. You do that,” Draco says, standing up with only the smallest of wobbles.  
  
Harry stands too, because he can. Sort of. “Right. And if you’re lying about any of it, you have to... erm... you have to talk to thingummy on your own next time. And every time until Christmas.”  
  
Draco lifts one eyebrow. After a moment, the other one comes up as well and he looks rather confused.  
  
“And if I’m not,” he says at last, “you have to build me one of your fancy little sheds. For free.”  
  
“Done,” Harry says, hardly hearing Draco’s terms as they shake hands with much solemnity and then wander off in separate directions.  
  
Moments later, Harry tumbles out of his kitchen fireplace and stumbles off to bed, wondering about cold, strong fingers and purebloods in boxed sets. He crawls under his quilt before he is fully undressed and curls into a messy, aching ball. Within seconds, he is asleep.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Second of December – Frosted leaves**  
  
  
  
After a broken and frustrating night’s sleep, Harry wakes before six and cancels his alarm with a weary flick of his hand. The house is dark and cold, and he pulls on a pair of soft trousers and a heavy jumper before he ventures downstairs to begin his morning routine. When the change from horizontal to vertical sets up a pounding and lurching in his head and stomach, he silently curses Draco for his insistence on far too much fucking wine, and then himself for fucking drinking it.  
  
He can’t say he really needed a reminder that he’s never been very good at drinking to excess, but still, he thinks he might have a bottle of Hangover Helper tucked away somewhere in his bathroom cabinet. First things first, though. What’s really needed here is caffeine, and despite the very real temptation to drop to the floor in a little ball and whimper, Harry pushes on towards his kitchen, operating almost on autopilot, until he feels cold tiles beneath his feet and his fingers close around the curved steel belly of his beloved cafetiere.  
  
“There you are,” he mumbles through lips that feel like rubber and glue.  
  
The coffee pot doesn’t reply, so he fills the kettle and begins the process that somehow kicks him into life at any and all hours, regardless of sleep deprivation or general reluctance to participate in the tasks of the day ahead. As he does so, he notices the pile of letters and parcels on the table and wonders if it can possibly have increased in size since the previous night. Irritated, he shakes his head and turns away. The action immediately sets off a wave of nausea, which is definitely hangover-related, and a shivering, frayed sort of feeling in his extremities, which is almost definitely not.  
  
It’s not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last, so Harry ignores it and forces himself to think of more pleasant things until his kitchen is full of the rich, warm scent of his favourite coffee and he is able at last to fill a large mug and cradle it under his chin. For a moment, he stands at the window and gazes wearily at the dark sky through a haze of steam, and then, on impulse, he flings open the back door and steps out onto the icy flagstones.  
  
He catches his breath when the harsh December air whips around him, ripping at the insides of his nostrils with every breath. The smell of winter is everywhere, rough and unforgiving, and he breathes it in until his eyes water and his face is numb with cold. As he sips his scalding coffee, he at last feels himself beginning to rise to full consciousness. Quietly relieved, he reaches out and traces the delicate, pointed shapes of the nearest plant with his fingertips. He can barely see the leaves in the darkness, but they are familiar, and each one that he touches releases a shower of tiny ice crystals over his skin. He sighs gently and closes his eyes.  
  
When he opens them again, his head is hammering and everything seems to be the wrong way up. He can see the leaves now, their coating of frost glittering in the weak sunlight, but he seems to be looking at them from below, gazing with half-closed eyes at the way they shiver against the sky. Blue streaked with orange, pink and gold. Green leaves. Silver frost. Fuck, he’s cold. He’s cold and wet and every part of him feels sore, except his feet, which he can’t seem to feel at all.  
  
Wincing at the renewed pain in his head, Harry shifts on the hard stone and peers at his feet. They are, to his relief, still there, and they move reluctantly at his command, but...  
  
“Fuck,” he mutters, as a fresh wave of pain asserts itself and forces him to let his head back down to the ground.  
  
Carefully, he lifts a hand to his face and immediately yanks it away again when he catches sight of a large patch of angry red skin on his forearm. Hissing in pain at the movement, he examines it more closely and finds that the skin is already beginning to blister and peel. As he shifts awkwardly on the frozen ground, something clinks and clatters beside him, and it takes several seconds of confusion for him to realise that he is half-sprawled on top of the broken pieces of his coffee mug.  
  
He is growing colder and more uncomfortable with each second that passes, and despite his best efforts, has no memory of what has happened to leave him in this ridiculous position. Gritting his teeth, he surges up from the ground and attempts to sit up, but his head quickly swims in protest and he slumps crossly onto his back again, this time attempting to take a little bit of care with the many parts of him that seem to be bruised.  
  
Fighting down a rising sense of panic, he draws cold, clear air deep into his lungs and stares up once more at the leaves above his head. He’s fine. A bit bashed up, maybe, a little bit burned, but he’ll be absolutely alright in a minute or two, and then he can Summon his wand from the kitchen, fix himself up and get to the office before anyone suspects a thing. Hannah, Alexander and Pyotr are in Stranraer for the rest of the week—they won’t even know he’s late.  
  
Feeling relieved, Harry smiles, and the action sends a shooting pain through his head that makes him gasp. Still, he’s fine. Just a few more minutes. A bit more looking up at leaves, and all will be well.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
He frowns at the sky, trying to work out where the voice could be coming from.  
  
“Harry, are you out here?”  
  
There it comes again. It sounds quite a bit like Hermione, but that doesn’t make any sense. This is _his_ back garden, after all. He frowns. It hurts.  
  
There’s a very familiar sigh and then, “Oh, my goodness!” and the sound of clattering feet before a pair of anxious brown eyes hover into view and Harry has a faceful of unruly curls.  
  
“Mfleh,” he manages, spitting out hair that smells of delicious berries and tastes... very much not like delicious berries.  
  
“Harry, what happened?” she asks, running her hands over his arms and legs and then drawing her wand. She casts a glowing sort of web over his body and stares at it, eyebrows knitted together. “Can you hear me?”  
  
“Of course,” Harry says, even though it feels like a stupid question.  
  
This time when he tries to sit up, she stops him with a gentle but firm hand on his chest.  
  
“Stay where you are. I need to see if you have a concussion.”  
  
“Hermione, I’m fine,” he sighs, but he stays still. Partly because movement seems to equal pain and partly because he knows better—even when he has had a blow to the head—than to argue with her. “Why are you in my garden?”  
  
“Never mind that now,” she says, leaning right over him to examine his head and treating him to a close up view of the weave of her lime green robes and another faceful of hair.  
  
“I thought you didn’t do earlies any more,” he mumbles into her chest.  
  
“I don’t, Harry, I’m not in until ten but it’s after nine now and I needed someone to look after Rose. She’s got some sort of virus and I can’t get cover until two.” Hermione pulls back from Harry’s head, apparently satisfied, and moves on to examining his scalded arm. “You’re lucky... as usual. Just bumps and bruises and what looks like a second-degree burn. I’m going to help you get into the house and then we really need to talk.”  
  
Harry blinks. “Why? And... hang on, did you say nine o’clock?”  
  
“About ten past, and you know why,” Hermione says, threading her arms expertly under his and helping him to his feet.  
  
Harry wobbles, feet still feeling as though they belong to someone else and might at any point just refuse to continue supporting him. He bites down hard on the inside of his mouth against the pain surging through him and hobbles back to the house, refusing to lean on Hermione until he almost loses his balance on the doorstep, at which point she rolls her eyes and propels him into a kitchen chair without another word.  
  
She flits around the kitchen, making tea and toast with the grimmest expression Harry has seen on her in years. Slowly, as his feet begin to thaw and painful pins and needles creep through his entire body, a very real feeling of dread begins to grow in the pit of his stomach. He knows what she wants to talk about, of course he does. She thinks he works too hard. She thinks he’s overdone it and _collapsed_ in his own back garden. Which, of course, he very much has not.  
  
“I had a few too many glasses of wine last night,” he says suddenly.  
  
“I see,” Hermione says, setting down a tray in front of him and then stalking over to the fireplace, where she calls up Molly and arranges for her to collect Rose and take care of her for the day.  
  
When she returns, she sits in the chair opposite Harry’s and sighs, twisting her fingers together in her lap as though nervous of her next words.  
  
“You don’t think I have a drinking problem, do you?” Harry asks, attempting to inject some humour into his tone. “Me? Three-Pints Potter?”  
  
Hermione fixes him with such a stern look that he immediately picks up his tea cup and a triangle of toast.  
  
“No,” she says. “I do not think you have a drinking problem. I think you have a working problem. I think you have a sleeping problem. A charity-function-every-other-night problem. A coffee problem. A living problem, Harry, and I—”  
  
“Hey, that was my first cup of the day,” Harry protests, ignoring the rest of his friend’s words because he has heard them many times before, in many different configurations, and they make his insides feel squirmy and his heart feel sore.  
  
“Oh?” Hermione’s eyes sharpen. “And you got up at six, like you always do?”  
  
Harry takes a bite of toast. It tastes like dust and he swallows it with some effort. “So?” he snaps. He doesn’t want to be rude to Hermione but everything hurts and his feet feel as though they are burning, and he feels fucking ridiculous. All he wants to do is take some pain-killing potions, have a hot shower and forget any of this ever happened.  
  
“So,” she says, folding her arms, and he has a sinking feeling that she has rather a different plan in mind for him. “ _So_ , considering that your arm is scalded, we can assume that you lost consciousness not long after six a.m. and had been lying there in the freezing cold for over three hours when I turned up. You don’t think you’re immune to hypothermia, do you?”  
  
Harry stares at her, challenging words stolen away by the brightness of her eyes.  
  
“Hermione... look, I’m sorry. But it’s just a hangover, I promise,” he says eventually, and his words do not sound convincing even inside his own head.  
  
Hermione presses her hands to her face and for a moment, Harry thinks she is going to burst into tears. Instead, she takes a deep breath and lets her hands fall back into her lap.  
  
“No, it’s not. You know it’s not.”  
  
Harry abandons all attempts at eating and drinking and just folds his arms on the table top, taking care to keep his scalded skin clear of any contact.  
  
“I’m okay,” he says, and his stomach lurches unpleasantly.  
  
Hermione nods and reaches for her wand. “I want to show you something.”  
  
“You’re going to be late for work.”  
  
She smiles stiffly. “This is more important.”  
  
Harry doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He sits still in his chair as she stands, pulling a quill and a leather-bound notebook from her bag, and then casts a series of spells around him. He can feel the magic of at least five separate charms and each one of them seems to hum and vibrate over his skin. There is something familiar about them, and about the light that fills his kitchen in shades of orange, red, and green. He breathes carefully through the process, unable to slow the racing of his heart when Hermione frowns and scribbles away in her little book.  
  
Eventually, she dispels the charms and the kitchen feels suddenly rather dark despite the pale sunlight that is now streaming in through the window. She doesn’t speak for what feels like a long time, clearly deep in thought as she cleans and heals Harry’s burned arm until nothing remains but a patch of pale pink new skin. He thinks the silence should be soothing, but instead it pulls him tight, curling his fingers into his palms and clenching his jaw until it hurts.  
  
“What were you looking for?” he asks at last, and she sits down with her book in her lap.  
  
“Just the usual things. Heart rate, blood pressure, energy levels,” she says, and then: “Mind patterns. Anxiety markers.”  
  
Harry swallows dryly. “And?  
  
“And... I found what I expected,” she says, glancing down at the pages of her book. “Basically, your energy levels are very low and everything else is... overactive, to say the least.”  
  
“Of course I’m anxious, I just made an idiot of myself falling over in my own back yard like a ninety-year-old,” Harry says, raking a hand through his hair and swearing under his breath when his fingertips hit a sore spot. He wonders if Hermione has a pain-killing potion in her enormous handbag and is keeping it to herself to make a point.  
  
“Fine,” she says lightly. “Why don’t you come round tomorrow when you’re not anxious and I’ll do the tests again?”  
  
“Is Ron cooking?” Harry asks, attempting to brazen it out, even though the thought of allowing Hermione to repeat her diagnostic spells makes him feel slightly uneasy.  
  
“It’s his night, yes.”  
  
“Then I’ll be there.”  
  
Hermione sighs, wrapping her fingers tightly around the edges of her book. “You know I don’t like to interfere, Harry, but... what?”  
  
Harry laughs. He can’t help it. “Yes, you do.”  
  
Hermione’s mouth twitches at the corners despite her obvious reluctance to smile.  
  
“Only when I’m worried about someone I love,” she says firmly. “Look... I know you won’t make an appointment to see a Healer because you’re insanely stubborn, but consider this a consultation, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Harry says warily.  
  
Hermione sits up straight and smoothes down the front of her green Healer robes. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Mr Potter, but you are pushing yourself too hard. Your health is suffering and your friends and family are right to be concerned. You need to take some time off work—”  
  
“Hermione, I can’t...”  
  
“Don’t argue with your Healer,” she says sternly. “At least a week. No work, no Ministry crap. I prescribe relaxation, good food, hugs, sleep, and tea.”  
  
“And is that the official recommendation of the St Mungo’s _Spell Damage_ Department?” Harry asks, raising a weary eyebrow.  
  
“Yes,” Hermione says, and then returning to her normal voice, she adds: “Please, Harry. I know things have been like this for a long time, but you need to stop. Before something stops you. What happened today isn’t normal and I can’t let you pretend it’s okay.”  
  
Harry stares at her, insides roiling and twisting as he imagines a week without his usual routine. Without the office and without his functions and without Draco. He doesn’t know if he can do it.  
  
“Promise me,” she says, and despite the rising panic in his chest, he knows what he has to do.  
  
He takes a deep breath. “One week, Hermione. I promise.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
By half past ten, Harry is alone in the house again. He has consumed several cups of tea and fresh rounds of toast under Hermione’s watchful eye, and is feeling much restored by a hot shower and a healthy draught of Healer-administered pain-killing solution that rushes through his body like a hot, savage wave and is at least twice as effective as the stuff lurking at the back of his bathroom cabinet. He starts the first day of his not-quite holiday with all the best intentions, dressing warmly and sitting at his desk with quill and parchment to write a letter to his staff, explaining the situation as much as he can without actually having to explain it.  
  
Once the letter has been sent, however, he suddenly realises that he has no idea what to do with himself. Of course, he could ignore all of Hermione’s instructions and head into the office anyway, but his head is full of her concerned eyes and his promise to be good, and in the end, all he can do is wander around the house in search of a distraction.  
  
He can’t remember the last time he was at home during the day for anything longer than a few minutes at a time. All he does here is sleep, bathe, and occasionally eat, and it shows. The big old house feels cold and unloved; the air in the living room and parlour is stale, and the whole place is scattered with boxes and packages and documents, things waiting to be sorted and tidied away. Harry pokes through a few piles before giving up and flopping into an armchair that doesn’t remember his shape.  
  
He can’t be sure when this happened, but he knows that once upon a time, he had been proud of his godfather’s old house. He had used his skills of transformation to make the place warm and comfortable, and he had decorated enthusiastically for every season. Harry gazes into the corner of the room where the Christmas tree should sit. He didn’t have one last year or the year before that, and he’s not sure even now if he can see the point when he’s never around to enjoy it.  
  
Besides, there will be no shortage of decorations now that the festive gala season is underway. On Friday, the Ministry will be lighting their enormous tree as part of their Big Bauble Bonanza, and this year they will have to do it without Harry. With a sigh, he gets up and goes to write a letter in apology for his absence, and as he finishes it and sets it aside to dry, he wonders what Draco will think when he just doesn’t turn up. Perhaps he should have a letter, too, Harry thinks, and then wrinkles his nose. That would just be strange.  
  
Of course, he could just go to the Manor and tell him in person. He is pretty sure that Draco issued an invitation—or perhaps a challenge—to that effect just last night. The memory of their conversation drifts into Harry’s mind and he smiles for a moment before quickly snapping back to reality. Yes, taking a trip to see Draco’s fictional animals would certainly be a distraction, but the last thing he needs right now is to overstep the mark.  
  
In fact, a complication like a Daytime Draco might just make this bizarre situation worse. It’s a bad idea, he tells himself, and just because it’s one he can’t get out of his head doesn’t mean that it is one that should be followed to its inadvisable conclusion.  
  
It’s a stupid idea, in fact, he scolds himself, even as he puts on his coat and scarf and Disapparates.  
  
“A sensible person would have stayed at home,” he mumbles when he approaches the tall, wrought iron gates and notices that growing alongside them is the same plant that he has in his garden. The one that had looked so pretty and sparkling from his position laid out on his garden flagstones. He still doesn’t know what it’s called.  
  
After a minute or two of searching, he can’t find anything resembling a bell, so he sends his Patronus cantering up the driveway and hopes for the best. As he waits, he squints against the afternoon sun and examines the Manor grounds. Everything looks very much as he had imagined, and there is nothing suggesting the chaos of animals in the manicured lawns, the sweeping gravel drive and the immaculate flower beds.  
  
By the time Draco comes into view, making his way down the drive with long, stalking strides, Harry has almost managed to push away his anxiety and displacement and is instead feeling rather smug.  
  
“Can I help you?” Draco asks, regarding Harry through the bars of the gate as though he is quite mad.  
  
For a long moment, Harry just stares back at him. He has always suspected that seeing Draco without the backdrop of a glittering function would be unsettling, but he finds himself unprepared for the wind-whipped hair, the practical dark trousers and the bulky green jumper. It’s as though he has somehow caught Draco out, because he looks entirely too ordinary to be allowed, and when the cold wind whips the brand new smell of citrus into Harry’s nostrils, his confused senses tangle and prevent any words from escaping.  
  
“Harry?” Draco narrows his eyes, and the _look_ , at least, is a familiar one. “Potter, please fucking focus.”  
  
The use of his surname somehow shakes Harry free, and he smiles. “You invited me.”  
  
“I invited you? Here?”  
  
“Last night,” Harry says, wondering if Draco is ever going to open the gates. “You wanted me to come and see your animal sanctuary.”  
  
“... alright,” Draco says slowly, and to Harry’s delight, his pale skin turns slightly grey.  
  
“I knew you were making it up,” he says, grinning, and all of his regrets about coming to the Manor are washed away. He wonders what Hermione will have to say about all of this. “I suppose that means you’ll be dealing with the Undersecretary of Bore for the next few weeks.”  
  
Draco frowns. “I don’t remember saying any of that,” he says carefully.  
  
“That’s a shame. I can show you a Pensieve memory if you like. We shook on it and everything. If I lost, I was going to have to build you a cabin... or something,” Harry says, unable to recall the finer details of their wager.  
  
To his surprise, Draco’s eyebrow flickers with interest. He gazes at Harry for what feels like a long time, and then finally unlocks the gates with his wand and steps back to allow Harry to pass.  
  
“I think it’s coming back to me,” he says, and then remains silent until they reach the house.  
  
Harry no longer has any idea what to think, so he just follows Draco over the crunchy gravel, surprised when they do not climb the steps onto the Manor’s vast portico but instead veer to the right, following a well-maintained path along the side of the main building and around to another set of gates, this time made of weathered, honey-coloured wood and fastened with a simple latch.  
  
Harry stops, catching the unmistakeable scent of fur and feathers on the breeze. Astonished, he turns to Draco.  
  
“It’s not made up, is it?” he asks quietly.  
  
“No. It’s not made up.” Draco’s face is unreadable as he opens the gate and gestures impatiently for Harry to walk ahead of him. “It is, however, a secret. Do you understand?”  
  
Harry nods numbly. “Yes, I think I remember that part. It’s verboten.”  
  
“Your German is terrible, Potter,” Draco says, and Harry sighs.  
  
“Can you stop it with the ‘Potter’? It’s weird.”  
  
“You’re on my property. That’s weird,” Draco says crossly, but as they turn another corner, he seems to relax.  
  
He doesn’t smile but the tension drops out of his shoulders, and Harry immediately turns to follow his gaze. Despite Draco’s assertions that no, the sanctuary is not a figment of his imagination, Harry still finds himself surprised to see a bank of large kennels, each mesh-fronted and set out to form a rough ‘u’ shape with a scrubbed, flagged area in the centre. At least half of the pens are occupied, and when Harry steps forward to get a better look at their inhabitants, Draco doesn’t stop him.  
  
In the first kennel, a vast, ginger-coloured boar sleeps on its side while a floating bag of a red potion hovers in the air above and appears to drip its contents into the patient’s mouth via a long tube. The next kennel houses a game bird of some sort, hopping around stoically on one foot, and the third, a two-headed snake with many missing scales. Harry walks slowly around the kennels, identifying a fox, a pair of baby badgers, an enormous cat, three owls and, most surprisingly, what looks like a vast trout, floating in a very large tank of water and looking rather cross. All are injured or unwell in some way, and all are bathed in the soft light of various warming or light-adjustment charms.  
  
“They’re all sick,” Harry says, more to himself than to Draco.  
  
“These ones are, yes,” Draco says, and Harry turns to him.  
  
“This isn’t it, then?”  
  
Draco snorts. “No. This is the recovery area. This is the clinic,” he says, indicating a small stone building fifty feet or so from the kennels. “Most of them are in the woods, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Harry repeats faintly. He wonders if any of this feels as surreal to Draco as it does to him, and then resolves to stop wondering because it isn’t as though Draco is going to tell him. The fact that he is here at all and receiving a tour of what has to be the strangest secret in the wizarding world is staggering enough, and all he can really do is take it all in.  
  
It’s been a very strange day already. He might as well just let it happen.  
  
He goes to follow Draco along the path and is almost knocked to the ground for a second time when something small but solid streaks out in front of him and immediately collides with his shins.  
  
“What the hell?” he mutters, performing a little side-step and managing to stay on his feet.  
  
The thing that had bumped into him lets out an offended sort of _kok-ko-ko-ko_ sound and shoots off into the bushes. A moment later, it is back and pecking vigorously at Harry’s shoes, staying still for just long enough for Harry to see that it is, in fact, a pheasant.  
  
“Don’t molest the visitor, Harold,” Draco says lazily without bothering to turn around.  
  
“Harold?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Harry watches as Harold the pheasant darts back into the undergrowth, appearing to fall over his own feet in his haste. “He’s not... named after me, is he?” he asks, frowning.  
  
Draco glances back at him and then continues walking. “If I said yes, would you continue to believe that the world revolves around you?”  
  
Harry flushes crossly. “I was just... I don’t think that. It’s just that he’s a bit stupid and I thought...”  
  
“He is not stupid,” Draco says, pausing now and turning to face Harry. “He is differently abled, Potter, and I will not have you disparaging him.”  
  
_Prrrrt_ , says Harold, running at full speed along the path and colliding with Harry’s leg.  
  
Harry looks at him, his little eyes and his shiny plumage and his slightly deranged expression.  
  
“Is he... you know... alright?”  
  
Draco’s eyes flicker with amusement. “He’s fine. I probably should have warned you that there are all sorts of things running amok around here.”  
  
“I consider myself warned,” Harry says.  
  
He disentangles himself from Harold and all three of them continue along the path until they reach a thickly wooded area that stretches back as far as the eye can see, and is bordered in the distance by fields to the left and right. He looks up, craning his neck to see the tops of vast oaks, sycamores and poplars, and then peers into the serene darkness of the trunks, where he can just make out the flashes of silver birches.  
  
“This is still your land?”  
  
Draco nods. “The whole area is warded, right around the back and from above,” he says, sketching a sweeping arc with his arm. “All of the animals in here are magically tagged so I can keep track on them and bring them in if they need treatment, and so forth.”  
  
“You don’t do all of this by yourself, do you?” Harry asks, quietly impressed.  
  
Draco shrugs and heads into the woods. “Just me and Sandrine.”  
  
“Who’s Sandrine?” Harry asks, feeling himself sinking slightly into the carpet of wet leaves and mud.  
  
“She’s a vet. Stop asking questions and listen.”  
  
“To what?” Harry whispers.  
  
“The woods, you idiot,” Draco says, and Harry pulls a face at his back.  
  
After a moment, though, he draws in a deep breath and does as he is told, gradually tuning his ears to the myriad soft sounds all around him. He can hear birds of all kinds twittering and rustling about above his head, unseen creatures crackling in the bushes, the sigh of the wind through the trees and the faint hiss of a stream or brook in the distance. The air here is damp and heavy with life, settling over him like a cloak and cleansing his restless nerves until he feels his fists unclench at his sides.  
  
He walks at Draco’s side, feeling more at peace in his company than ever before, looking down at his feet every now and then to avoid stepping on Harold, who has seen fit to accompany them all the way into the woods and seems to have only one mode of travel – in a curious zigzag pattern and at speed. Every now and then he calls out and receives an answering call from a nearby bush or clump of grass.  
  
When Draco turns back without a word, Harry says nothing, and when they emerge into the afternoon sunlight and a tiny black Puffskein skitters through his legs and tears off in pursuit of Harold, he says nothing. He’s not sure if he’s still listening to the sounds of Draco’s land or if this whole experience has somehow stunned him into silence.  
  
At the gates, Draco hangs back, fingers wrapped around a wrought iron bar and expression pensive.  
  
“What time are you coming back tomorrow?” he asks at last.  
  
Harry blinks. “Coming back?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco says, one eyebrow flickering. “We have business to discuss.”  
  
“What kind of business?” Harry asks, feeling his muscles tightening with anxiety.  
  
Draco closes the gate on him with a clang. “You owe me a shed. Shall we say nine?”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Third of December – Chilli peppers**  
  
  
  
Harry sleeps more soundly than he has done in a long time, right through his six o’clock alarm, and is only roused when he hears the insistent tapping of an owl on his bedroom window. Stretching and rising, he recognises the company owl, Grix, and lets him in with a swoop of anxiety that he elects to ignore. News from his staff is a good thing, even if it does remind him of his idiotic promise to Hermione and all that it entails.  
  
Grix submits to Harry’s fusses for a moment or two and then takes off back into the crisp, dry morning without waiting for a reply. Amused, Harry takes the letter down to the kitchen, where he makes a pot of coffee in silent defiance and sits down at the table to read. When he unscrolls the letter and realises who has written it, he sighs. Pyotr is a skilled wizard and a fine craftsman, but the ability to write legibly has so far evaded him in his forty-odd years on this planet. The letter, just like his estimates and receipts and frequently sent-back owl order lunch forms, is made up of a series of long, squiggling lines with only the occasional recognisable word.  
  
By the time Harry manages to decipher it, he is halfway down his second cup of coffee and is beginning to develop a headache. Fortunately, he still has one dose left of Hermione’s extra-strength pain-killing potion, and after that and a decent shower, he is feeling quite refreshed. The important thing is that everyone is getting on just fine without him. Now all he has to do is stop worrying about all the little things that are going on in his absence, and he’ll be sorted.  
  
Perhaps Hermione will have some answers. This is, after all, her little intervention, and if she’s entered into it without reading a mountain of books on the subject first, he will be very surprised.  
  
Feeling oddly comforted by the thought, he wanders around the house, packing various useful items into a worn old rucksack. He hums as he goes, partly because he feels oddly optimistic and partly because the sound distracts him from the thought that he is going to Malfoy Manor again—two days in a row—and he is going to exchange words and plans with a Draco he hasn’t a single clue what to do with. Not that he needs to do anything with Draco, he just has to... it’s just odd. That’s all there is to it.  
  
He finds himself arriving outside the gates of the Manor at ten to nine, strangely irritated to see that Draco is already there waiting for him and looks as though he has been there for some time. His ‘good morning’ is so polite, though, that Harry can only return the greeting and follow him up the gravel drive towards the house. As they walk, Harry watches Draco covertly, examining his tweedy trousers and his thick, cabled jumper. He reminds Harry of something or someone that is lodged in the back of his memory and he can’t seem to yank it free. Whatever it is, it makes Harry smile, and when Draco glances at him, his expression is wonderfully confused.  
  
When they reach the recovery area, Harry pauses to scan the kennels. Nothing much seems to have changed, though the boar has altered position slightly and Harry is now able to see three tiny ginger-haired babies—piglets, he supposes—huddling close to her and nosing around her belly with their twitching little snouts.  
  
“She’s got babies,” he murmurs, grinning. “Will she be alright, do you think?”  
  
“Sandrine seems to think so,” Draco says, coming up behind him. “They’re a very hardy breed.”  
  
“Wild boars?” Harry asks uncertainly.  
  
“A relative. She’s a great hoggler, a magical variety of wild pig,” Draco explains, walking slowly over to the pen and reaching down to scratch the heads of the little piglets. “They’re long-lived, reproduce almost continuously, and can sniff out just about anything if they’re given the scent.”  
  
“Kind of like a tracker dog?” Harry asks, looking at the unconscious mother pig with new admiration.  
  
“A tracker pig, I suppose,” Draco says, sounding amused.  
  
“What happens when she’s better?”  
  
“She’ll go back into the woods. All of these animals will if I can help it.” Draco opens his mouth to speak again and Harold careers around the corner and straight into a wall, stealing his attention effortlessly. “Like I said, if I can help it,” he manages at last, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Some of them come in for treatment and then never leave.”  
  
Harold fixes each of them with his mad little eyes and then takes off in the direction of the wood. A second or two later, he is followed by the black Puffskein, and then, at a more stately pace, by a bright pink duck.  
  
“That one was a rescue,” Draco explains before Harry has time to ask. “Someone’s magical experiment gone wrong, to put it politely.”  
  
His face darkens suddenly, and Harry decides not to push the issue, instead following the now-familiar path to the edge of the woods.  
  
“First things first, you will not go into the woods without me,” Draco says, and though his tone clearly brooks no argument, Harry is curious.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because it is dangerous,” Draco snaps, and Harry has to stop himself from taking a step backwards.  
  
He can feel the panic beginning to twist inside him, snaking over his arms and legs and wrapping around his throat like some kind of malevolent vine, and he hates it. He hates it and he can’t fucking breathe properly and he wants to reach over and shake Draco until he stops making this weird. Instead, though, he pulls in a long, deep breath and consciously tenses and then relaxes his shoulders, arms and hands.  
  
“Are you alright?” Draco asks, frowning.  
  
“Yes,” Harry says, and it isn’t a lie, because he is fine. He is in control of this feeling, not the other way around, and if Draco doesn’t want him to go into the woods then that is not a problem.  
  
“Well, then, I would like you and your eels to build me a large shed right on the... you’re laughing at me,” Draco says, sounding bewildered. “What?”  
  
“My eels?” Harry asks, grinning.  
  
“Yes. That’s what your company is called, isn’t it? It doesn’t make sense, but then you never have.”  
  
Harry laughs, finally understanding. “It’s not ‘eels’, it’s E.A.L.S.,” he says, spelling the letters out and ticking each one off on his fingers. “Evans Amazing Living Spaces.”  
  
“What’s the difference?” Draco frowns.  
  
Harry shrugs, unperturbed. “Fine. ‘Eels’ it is. Unfortunately, I don’t have any eels to spare at the moment, they’re all busy on other projects. If you’re absolutely going to insist on doing this _now_ like I think you are, I’m afraid you’ve just got me.”  
  
... _and I’m not supposed to be working at all_ , he adds silently, wondering how he has allowed himself to fall into this trap and hoping that Hermione won’t be too cross with him.  
  
“A gentleman always honours his wagers,” Draco says, rubbing gently at the bark of a nearby tree and then lounging against it, eyes pinning Harry firmly to the spot.  
  
“I don’t remember claiming to be a gentleman,” he says at last, but he reaches into his rucksack and gets out his sketchbook anyway. “What sort of a shed?”  
  
**~*~**  
  
The sun has set by the time Draco is finally satisfied with the first draft of the design, and Harry’s face and hands are numb with cold for long after he arrives home. The house is chilly as always, and in the end, nothing but a steaming hot bath will do. With a sigh of pure relief, he sinks into the hot water up to his chin, feeling its delicious caress against his weary, aching limbs. He closes his eyes and flicks through the pages of his sketchbook in his mind, idly wondering about the best type of wood for the job and how exactly he’s going to incorporate some of the more unusual features that Draco has asked for.  
  
What Draco wants is not just a shed. Of course it’s not. What Draco wants is one of Harry’s all-singing, all-dancing, one of a kind little showpieces. He wants what Ron, with his love of all things sci-fi, calls a TARDIS.  
  
“They’re bigger on the inside,” he insists whenever someone admits that they have no idea what he’s talking about, and then wanders off muttering about who would and wouldn’t be welcome on Gallifrey.  
  
The thought pulls a smile from Harry and he ducks his head completely under the hot water, letting his mental plans dissolve into spirals of menthol-scented steam.  
  
When he gets to Ron and Hermione’s cottage, he finds them squabbling at the stove, Hermione with hands on hips and Ron waving a wooden spoon around. They appear not to notice him, so he stands absolutely still and listens to their argument with interest. Whatever Ron is cooking smells wonderful, and the table has been set with clean white crockery, a large platter of naan breads, and, to his slight relief, a pitcher of something that looks refreshing and non-alcoholic.  
  
“You’ve put enough in,” Hermione says. “It won’t taste nice.”  
  
“It’s my night to cook, I can put as many in as I like,” Ron says stubbornly, edging Hermione out of the way and picking up a knife.  
  
It’s then that Harry sees the bag of chillies and he smiles. Already he can smell spices and garlic and other delicious things, and he can’t help but wonder if Ron has chosen this particular meal for his benefit. Much like his mother, Ron is firmly convinced that food has the ability to heal any malady, and he is also a firm believer in the power of pungent herbs, roots and vegetables to restore even the peakiest looking person to vibrant health.  
  
“How’s Rose doing?” Harry asks, musing on just how much of her dad’s spicy food she has had to consume during her illness.  
  
Both of them turn around to look at him, clearly startled.  
  
“She’s a lot better, thanks,” Hermione says with a smile. “Just having an early night. I’m just going to go and see if she needs anything... Ron... just don’t, alright?”  
  
Ron blinks innocently, but the moment his wife’s back is turned, he chops three more chillies and flings them into the pot. He shoots Harry a gleeful smile and draws a finger across his lips in a zipping motion before turning back to hurriedly stir in the evidence and throw the bag of chillies into a cupboard. Harry nods solemnly. Ron’s meals may blow his head off from time to time, but they are delicious, and he will take the occasional palate torching over Hermione’s efforts any day.  
  
Halfway into his bowl of the hottest curried meatballs he has ever tasted, he is beginning to doubt the wisdom of his decision. Eyes watering, he sets down his fork and drinks deeply from his glass of fruit juice, letting an ice cube rest on his tongue for a moment.  
  
Hermione shoots him a sympathetic glance and then continues to spoon yogurt onto her meal with a beleaguered expression.  
  
“Is it not nice?” Ron asks, looking slightly wounded.  
  
“It’s lovely,” Harry assures, crunching his ice cube. “Bit warm. But lovely.”  
  
Ron smiles and shovels a forkful of food into his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he mumbles, sighing and spraying his jumper lightly with rice. “Sorry. Up and down the stairs at the Harpies’ ground for hours on end. Something’s gone wrong with the concealment charms on the north end... load of Muggles waiting at a bus stop saw them practising... had to get the Obliviators out.”  
  
“Sounds like fun,” Harry says, smile fading as he feels Hermione’s eyes on him.  
  
The feeling of dread is back, and he turns slowly to look at her. Something about the mention of work seems to have sharpened her posture, and it comes as no surprise to Harry when the next words out of her mouth are:  
  
“You haven’t been in to the office have you?”  
  
“No,” Harry says after a long moment, during which he can’t quite decide whether he wants to laugh or put a Stinging Hex up her spine. “I wrote them a letter and then I... was good. Well-behaved.”  
  
Ron snorts. “And what does that involve, exactly?”  
  
Harry hesitates, heart beginning to skip guiltily. “Well... I’ve been doing... nice things. Fun things, like you told me to,” he says, and it’s not a complete lie. Visiting the Manor is strangely enjoyable.  
  
Hermione sets down her fork, appearing to give up on the curry. She rests her chin on one hand and regards Harry with an almost motherly eye.  
  
“I’m not convinced. Harry... when was the last time you actually did something fun?”  
He frowns. “I took Rose to Thorpe Park last week.”  
  
Hermione and Ron exchange glances.  
  
“That was fun for Rosie, not for you,” Ron says, wrinkling his nose apologetically.  
  
“It was—” Harry begins, but Hermione interrupts.  
  
“You hate rollercoasters,” she points out.  
  
“Which is pretty weird, considering how much you like flying,” Ron puts in, swapping his plate with Hermione’s and starting on her leftovers.  
  
“At least use your own fork,” she sighs, and then gives up, sagging slightly in her seat.  
  
For the first time in a long time, Harry realises just how tired she looks. There are shadows under her eyes and her usually-glowing skin seems pale and tight. Harry wonders just how many hours she has worked this week, and how many she has spent taking care of her share of the housework, cooking, and child care. For a moment, the perceived hypocrisy seems to sting, and then he catches sight of himself in the dark reflection of the kitchen window. He looks terrible, worn out and wrung tightly like an old flannel. He glances at Ron, hoping and not hoping to see more of the same in his face and posture, but his friend just gazes back at him warmly, looking the same as he always does.  
  
Mostly the same. There’s a flicker of worry in the blue eyes, and it makes Harry feel small and ridiculous. His friends are tired, ruffled around the edges, of course they are; their lives are not without difficulty or challenge, but as they all sit there around the kitchen table and attempt to eat together, they both look so worried about him that he thinks he might cry.  
  
“Daddy?” Rose calls from the doorway, and they all turn to look at her.  
  
She cuts a miserable little figure with her flushed face and her freckled arms wrapped around her shivering body. Harry smiles at her and receives a wobbly smile back.  
  
“Won’t be a minute,” Ron says, wiping his mouth on a napkin and scraping back his chair.  
  
Gently, he puts his arm around his daughter and guides her back to her bedroom, mumbling something about Nargle-catchers that makes Rose laugh and then cough.  
  
Hermione sighs. “We can mend a fractured skull with one spell but we can’t cure a simple virus.”  
  
“Poor Rose,” Harry says, silently resolving to scrub his hands as soon as he can. The last thing he needs at the moment is some kind of illness.  
  
“You know, stress is an illness, too,” Hermione says, and not for the first time, Harry finds himself wondering if she can read minds.  
  
He nods, fingers tightening around his fork. “I know.”  
  
“We love you, you know that, don’t you?” she says, staring holes into him and then reaching for her wand and notebook, which she has apparently been hiding under the table.  
  
“Yes... what is this, an intervention?” he asks, forcing a nervous smile.  
  
Hermione smiles back. “If you like,” she says, and then the room is full of soft, glowing colours as her diagnostic charms wrap around him, reaching out for his magic and humming in his ears.  
  
Harry closes his eyes. He breathes, holding onto a slow, steady rhythm, tries to relax his shoulders and hands and jaw, and by the time Hermione tells him to open his eyes again, he can almost convince himself that he’s calm.  
  
“Well?” he asks, as casually as he can.  
  
Hermione continues to scribble in her little book for several seconds and then she looks up.  
  
“I’m impressed,” she says. “Your heart rate has dropped by three beats per minute. Otherwise, no change. Sorry.”  
  
Harry drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter and slumps back in his chair. For a moment, he lets his arms dangle loosely at his sides as he stares up at the ceiling. He wants to protest, to insist that Hermione tries again, gives him a second, or perhaps third, chance to convince her that all is well, but there’s no use. She is right and he is... not surprised any more.  
  
Of course, logic is all very well, but it doesn’t do anything to stop the racing in his chest or the horrible cold feeling that has taken up residence in his mouth despite the best efforts of Ron’s spices.  
  
“I’ve been at Malfoy Manor,” he says suddenly, the words seeming to tumble out of his mouth without warning.  
  
“It was only a matter of time,” Ron says, crossing the kitchen and dropping back into his chair. “She’s gone back to sleep.”  
  
Harry stares at him. “What?”  
  
Gratifyingly, Hermione looks equally confused. “Ron, what are you talking about?”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Ron mutters, clearly exasperated. “You and Malfoy? You can’t get between the two of you whenever there’s a fancy do on, but you’ve never been to each other’s houses or anything? It’s _weird_ , mate... you’d think he’d have had you round for tea or something by now.”  
  
Harry stares at his friend, watching his ears turn pink as Hermione giggles at his outburst.  
  
“Tea?” she manages breathlessly.  
  
Ron shrugs. “Yeah, you know... with a pot and little sandwiches and all that. If anyone has their tea like that, it’s Malfoy.”  
  
“I’m afraid I haven’t been offered any tea yet,” Harry says, caught between wanting to join in with Hermione’s laughter and the very real desire to get up and Disapparate. He doesn’t want to talk about Draco, and Ron’s observations absolutely aren’t helping with the feeling that someone somewhere is trying to turn his world inside out.  
  
“How rude,” Hermione says, chewing on the corner of a smile.  
  
“It’s not really a social visit,” Harry says. “I’m going to build him a...”  
  
Hermione’s eyes snap to his and he falls silent, realising his mistake far too late.  
  
“You’re building him a what?” she asks, pinning him to his seat with a look that demands the absolute and unvarnished truth.  
  
He sighs. “He wants a shed. A fancy one. He’s not paying me for it if that makes you feel any better.”  
  
“Why would that make me feel better?” she asks, just as Ron says:  
  
“What does someone like Malfoy need a shed for?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he offers in response to both questions.  
  
He has no explanation for his mixed-up logic, and he can’t quite bring himself to betray Draco’s trust. It’s a secret, after all.  
  
“He has a lot of land,” he says eventually. “Maybe he needs it for... land... purposes.”  
  
“Well, I think it’s a good idea,” Hermione says, gathering their plates and taking them over to the sink.  
  
Harry stares at the back of her head, astonished. “I thought you wanted me to stop working? I thought you’d be cross.”  
  
Hermione strides across the tiles and envelops him in a hug so tight that he can barely breathe.  
  
“What I want is for you to slow down. Just... be. If that means you need to build a shed in Draco Malfoy’s back garden, then so be it.”  
  
Harry exchanges a baffled glance with Ron through his wife’s hair.  
  
“Just go with it,” Ron advises after a moment, rising and heading for the kettle. “She usually knows what she’s doing. Tea?”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Fourth of December - Stack of hot buttered toast**  
  
  
  
Harry’s stomach growls. The sound is loud and surprising enough to make him pause in his inspection of the muddy ground and wonder if he remembered to have breakfast before he left for the Manor. He thinks probably not, and as he wipes his hands on his jeans and sits back on his heels, the rustling wind brings with it an alluring, warm scent. This time, his stomach seems to roar in approval, and he gets to his feet without thinking about it, picking up his instruments and his sketchbook and heading off in search of the source.  
  
After a brief search of the grounds, he finds Draco sitting at a marble-topped table at the front of the house, frowning at a letter and crunching into a piece of hot buttered toast. Harry hangs back at the edge of the portico and watches him, bewildered to see him doing something so ordinary. Still, he is very hungry, and Ron’s scandalised words about their lack of shared food echo in the back of his head. He is just wondering whether or not he should ask for a slice when Harold shoots out from under a holly bush and rapidly connects with Draco’s wellington boot.  
  
It’s a very nice wellington boot, Harry thinks idly. Sturdy and tall, in muted green, with a pair of little straps and buckles at the top. The type of wellington boot that a refined country gentleman might wear, and oh, fucking hell, that’s what Draco looks like. The memory that Harry has been trying to grasp for several days now all at once falls into place and he can’t quite stifle a snort of laughter.  
  
With his ruffled hair and cable-knit jumpers, his tweedy trousers and his fancy wellies, Draco looks exactly like the cover models of the _Rural Life_ magazines Harry used to flip through in the waiting room every time Dudley coughed and Petunia dragged both of them off to the local doctor’s surgery. True, he hasn’t seen a magazine like that in years, but he can still picture the scene perfectly, and Draco only needs a glossy Labrador to make the picture complete. What he has instead is a mad pheasant, and the thought only provokes another ripple of laughter.  
  
This time, Draco turns in his seat and regards him with an arched eyebrow.  
  
“What on earth is the matter with you?”  
  
“Nothing,” Harry lies, emerging from the shadow of the portico and approaching the table.  
  
When he gets there, he sees that not only is the stack of toast quite large and shimmering under a warming charm, but sitting beside it is a tray with cups and a teapot, just like Ron had said. Amused, Harry sits in the chair opposite Draco’s and is immediately rewarded with a frantic pecking of the hem of his trousers.  
  
“Hello, Harold,” he murmurs, and the bird lets out a soft, vibrating sound in response.  
  
“Well, have some toast, then,” Draco says, frowning and indicating the plate.  
  
Startled, Harry complies, crunching into a piece and sighing with contentment at the perfect combination of hot, crisp bread and salted butter. Draco watches him for a moment and then pokes at the teapot before returning to his letter.  
  
“How did you know I’d come looking for you?” Harry asks, eyeing the large stack of toast and the tray with two pinstriped mugs on it.  
  
“I assumed you’d follow your nose,” Draco says without looking up.  
  
Harry stares at him, unsure whether to be offended or amused. “Like a pig?”  
  
Draco meets his eyes, mouth twitching at one corner. “Exactly.”  
  
Harry has nothing to say to that, so he chomps several more pieces of toast, contentedly washing them down with tea when the mug is pushed towards him. He wonders if Malfoy Manor still has a house-elf, or if, in fact, he is experiencing the culinary efforts of Draco himself. It’s not as though there’s anything complicated or groundbreaking about tea and toast at eleven o’clock in the morning, but as far as Harry is concerned, the whole thing is bizarre and novel.  
  
As he gazes out over the lightly frosted lawns, he begins to see movement everywhere. Compared to the constant rustling and chattering of the wood, this part of the grounds has so far seemed rather silent and clinical, but now that he’s looking more closely, he realises his mistake. Tiny birds are hopping around on the grass, pecking at the ground and conversing in high-pitched pips and chitters; peacocks are wandering languidly around the hedges, ornate tail feathers trailing behind them, and squirrels seem to be everywhere at once, streaking around the grounds in curious, staccato waves.  
  
Draco is still immersed in his correspondence when a miniscule sparrow approaches the table. Harry barely dares to move. He has never been approached by a wild animal like this, and the sparrow seems full of curiosity and confidence quite disproportionate to its size. Somewhere under the table, Harold is still lurking, but the sparrow seems unconcerned, looking up at Harry with bright eyes and then snatching up a toast crumb from the grass.  
  
Harry is transfixed. In an attempt to remain still, he wraps his hands around his mug and holds on tight, until the sparrow hops closer, gives his shoe an experimental peck and then takes off in a flutter of little brown wings.  
  
He lets out his breath in a rush, grinning and not caring a bit that his muscles are tense and jittery yet again.  
  
“You see a lot if you stay still for long enough,” Draco says without looking up from his letters.  
  
“I can stay still,” Harry mutters crossly.  
  
Draco meets his eyes, incredulous. “I think that’s the longest I have ever seen you go without fidgeting, squirming, or vibrating your leg up and down.”  
  
“I don’t do that,” Harry argues, but he knows that Draco is right.  
  
He hates it when Draco is right. He always has.  
  
Irritated, he picks up his pencil and opens his sketchbook, taking a gulp of cold, cleansing air and deciding to focus on something useful. Now that he has the readings from the site itself, he can start making decisions about building materials, and there are still several revisions to make to the design itself. He stares at the lines on the page until they seem to twist into hopeless squiggles. Opposite him, Draco flips through parchments and drinks a second cup of tea. Harry wonders if any of this should still feel strange, and then wonders if it does or not. He shifts on his chair and attempts not to allow any part of him to vibrate, even though his hands and face are numb with cold. He chews on his pencil until the wood cracks between his teeth, rasping wood and graphite against his tongue. Draco sighs.  
  
“Must you?”  
  
Harry withdraws the pencil from his mouth and clasps it tightly in one hand. Something about Draco’s expression makes his heart speed in irritation, and he almost wishes Hermione were here to administer her bloody tests.  
  
_It’s you, Draco. You’re the one making me stressed_ , he accuses silently, and though he knows it isn’t the truth, it makes him feel better for a moment.  
  
Instead, he folds his arms on the table and lets out a long, careful breath.  
  
“Why do you do this?”  
  
“That’s a little bit dramatic,” Draco says. “I only wanted you to stop crunching your pencil.”  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. “Why do you do _this_?” he clarifies, indicating the letters, the grounds, the path that leads to kennels full of sick animals.  
  
“Why do you build sheds and tents for rich people?” Draco asks, face closed now.  
  
“I like making things,” Harry says, and it’s the simple truth.  
  
“I find nature satisfying,” Draco says, and something about his cagy expression makes Harry want to keep pushing, but he won’t.  
  
Or, at least, he thinks he won’t, but the next question out of his mouth is:  
  
“Why is it a secret?”  
  
Draco stares at him for long seconds. “Leave it alone, Harry,” he says, almost in a whisper, and then he gathers his things and gets up from the table. “I think tea time is over.”  
  
He stalks off into the house and Harry watches him go, riled and intrigued and confused all at once.  
  
“Tea time is over,” he tells Harold, mimicking Draco’s dismissive tone.  
  
Harold jumps onto the table and begins to gobble up the toast crumbs from the plate, glancing up at the house every now and then as though to make sure Draco doesn’t reappear.  
  
Feeling a little brighter, Harry returns to work, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw, sit up straight and clear his mind of everything but the shed on the edge of the forest.  
  
The sun is dropping below the treetops when he finally gives up and packs his things up into his rucksack. His plans are coming along nicely, and he also seems to have made a friend in Harold, who has barely left his side since Draco returned to the house. As Harry stretches and wonders if he should look for Draco or just leave, the pheasant runs around his feet, stopping occasionally to pull at his shoelaces.  
  
“You should check they’re still tied. I once fell flat on my face because he’d pulled all the laces undone while I wasn’t looking.”  
  
Harry turns. Draco is standing on the portico, half in shadow and half bathed in soft, orange light.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, shaking away the urge to climb the steps and join him. Instead, he hoists his rucksack on his shoulder and leans down to retie his shoelaces.  
  
“I’ll see you tonight,” Draco says, voice oddly tentative.  
  
Harry’s stomach tightens as he realises that he has completely forgotten to tell Draco that he won’t be attending this evening’s Big Bauble Bonanza.  
  
“I’m not going... it’s kind of a long story,” he sighs.  
  
Something interesting flickers in Draco’s eyes and he seems to slump slightly against a nearby stone pillar. “I see.”  
  
Harry looks at Harold, at the sunset and the huge, open sky. He smiles.  
  
“I’ll see you in the morning.”  
  
“Nine o’clock,” Draco says, and if he weren’t certain it was a trick of the light, Harry would almost swear he saw him smile.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Fifth of December - Stone fireplace with horse brasses**  
  
  
  
On Saturday morning, Harry makes the journey to Malfoy Manor without even really thinking about it. In fact, he decides it’s in his best interests not to think about it. What’s important is that he has work to do—work sanctioned by Healer Granger, at that—and the prospect of a day spent rattling around in a neglected Grimmauld Place is a less than pleasant one.  
  
The jangling of his nerves still manages to accompany him all the way up the drive and all the way out to his little building site, but something about the endless pale sky above his head seems to calm him, and he looks up often, breathing in air that smells of moss and magic.  
  
In an effort to sit still and possibly attract more interesting creatures to him, Harry finds himself moving himself and his sketchbook around to different locations around the grounds throughout the morning. For some reason, each new change of scenery gives him an extra boost of something approaching tranquillity, which allows him to stave off the fidgeting and vibrating for a little bit longer every time.  
  
“So, how was it last night?” he asks from his seat on the cold flagstones, just across the way from the recovery area, where Draco is checking on the penned animals.  
  
“How was what?” Draco asks vaguely, sliding his hand carefully under the belly of the trout and getting a faceful of water from a powerful tail. “Thank you for that.”  
  
He doesn’t withdraw his hand, merely holding steady until the big cross fish settles down, and then feeling with his fingertips along its spotted skin. Apparently satisfied, he pulls his hand out of the water, shakes it, and turn to Harry with an expectant expression.  
  
Harry blinks, scrabbling in his head for words. Any words, really.  
  
“Oh,” he says at last. “The Ministry thing last night. How was it? Did you miss me?”  
  
Draco’s eyebrow flickers as he turns away. “It did lack a certain something,” he says, and his next words are almost lost as he opens the next door along with a scrape and disappears inside the kennel. Harry can make out ‘glittering steak sauce’ and ‘Celestina bloody Warbeck’ but the rest is too muffled to catch. He doesn’t mind. He can use his imagination.  
  
For the next few minutes he sits in complete silence, sketchbook resting on his drawn-up knees, just watching Draco going about his routine and wondering about him. He thinks about night-time Draco, the polished, cutting, sharply-dressed person who has been his companion at every event for the last decade, and then about the man in front of him, who, while unmistakeably still Draco, is warm and crotchety and uncertain, and who almost definitely does not get put into a box at the end of the night. He can’t make up his mind which of them is the _real_ Draco Malfoy, or if perhaps they are just two sides of the same man.  
  
Either way, there is something about this Draco that pulls his attention, ensuring that he spends at least as much time watching him as he does planning the shed he has promised. He thinks it must be something about the way he treats the animals, the way he is kind to Harold, who follows him everywhere and collides with him frequently, and the absolute patience he shows to the creatures in the recovery pens.  
  
The piglets grunt enthusiastically when he kneels at the edge of their kennel and offers them treats, taking advantage of their distraction to lift each one and examine them with narrowed eyes. The mother pig, still unconscious, is checked over with a series of spells, and the piglets climb all over her, pushing their snouts towards Draco in the hope of further generosity. After a while, Harry realises that he is no longer drawing a diagram of a conical roof but a series of piglets, each with a ridge of pale hair down its back and each with a prominent, upturned snout. He sighs.  
  
“Did you say something?” Draco asks, turning to him with a frown.  
  
“Nope. You must be hearing things,” Harry says, hauling himself to his feet and shaking out his cold, stiff arms and legs.  
  
Draco looks at him dubiously and then draws his wand to cast a swift but gentle repelling charm against Harold, who has skittered across the flags and attempted to leap in amongst the pigs. The pheasant struggles against the magic for a moment and then takes off in the direction of the house with his friends behind him. Harry opts to follow them, picking up his pace when cold, stinging raindrops begin to hammer down around him. By the time he reaches the portico, his hair and clothes are soaked and he has had to shove his sketchbook up his jumper to protect it from water damage.  
  
He scrambles onto the portico and looks back onto the path, but Draco is not behind him. Shivering, he steps away from the edge, backing up until his shoulders are pressed against the cold stone. The rain is pelting down now in a shimmering sheet, blurring the grounds into a wash of green and grey and kicking up the most thrilling scent from the soaked earth. Carefully, Harry spells his sketchbook and glasses free of water and then just lounges there, breathing it all in and attempting to remember the last time he saw a simple downpour as anything other than an inconvenience.  
  
“Are you just going to stand there looking deranged or are you coming inside?” Draco asks.  
  
The voice comes from somewhere very close to Harry’s side and he jumps. Draco is standing just five or six feet to his left, reaching for one of the large brass door handles.  
  
“Er... right,” Harry says, and he follows Draco into the house.  
  
He is surprised when they do not head along one of the grand-looking corridors but instead cross the entrance hall and descend several flights of stairs before stepping out into a huge, stone-flagged kitchen. There are no windows here, and Harry has the feeling that they are not only under the house but right in the centre of it. Despite the lack of natural light, the kitchen glows warmly with wall-torches, a host of glimmering, floating magical orbs, and a roaring fire in a vast fireplace that takes up the entirety of the back wall.  
  
He draws closer to the hearth instinctively, warming his cold hands and noticing the gleaming rows of horse brasses pinned to the chimney breast. The last time he saw anything like them he was in an old-fashioned Muggle pub with Hermione and her parents, and there is something very amusing about seeing them here, right in the heart of Malfoy Manor. He wonders if Draco has any copper jugs full of dried flowers or paintings of dogs playing poker.  
  
“They’re my mother’s,” Draco says, setting the kettle to boil and coming to stand at Harry’s side. He gazes at the horse brasses with an odd mixture of contempt and affection. “My father hated them. He thought they were ‘common’. When he passed, she had them all put up in here. This is her favourite room. It’s right in the centre of the house so she feels...”  
  
“Safe?” Harry suggests when Draco falls silent.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I didn’t realise she was still living here,” Harry admits, gazing into the fire and giving Draco a moment to gather himself. He seems to have shared more than he ever intended to and now looks as though he wants the words back.  
  
Draco takes a long, steady breath. “She prefers to stay in the house. She and her friends spend most of their time in here.”  
  
“I don’t blame them,” Harry says, looking around at the low, beamed ceiling, the shelves full of intriguing jars and bottles, the racks of copper pans that gleam in the soft light. “It’s really nice in here,” he adds, and it’s true. He feels immediately at home, something he never expected to find in a place like Malfoy Manor.  
  
“I am pleased you find it comfortable, Mr Potter,” someone says, and Harry whips around to find Narcissa Malfoy standing in the doorway, dressed in dark, elegant robes and surrounded by what appears to be a small army of cats.  
  
“Hello, Mother, do you want a cup of tea?” Draco asks, apparently unfazed by the river of white, black, orange and stripy fur now milling around his feet.  
  
“Darjeeling, please,” she says, granting Harry a small smile and settling herself in a chair at the table. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Mr Potter?”  
  
Startled, Harry hesitates for a moment too long, and Narcissa turns to her son. “Draco, didn’t you ask Mr Potter to sit down?”  
  
Draco shoots a weary glance at Harry and then meets his mother’s eyes in a rather significant fashion.  
  
“We just came in. It’s raining. Harry can sit down if he wants to.”  
  
Amused, Harry watches as he fetches a second teapot for his mother and then he opts to take the chair opposite Narcissa’s. It seems like a good idea not to wait to be asked twice.  
  
“Draco tells me he’s commissioned you for a building project,” she says, leaning back and allowing a small calico cat to leap onto her lap.  
  
“That makes it sound very grand,” Harry laughs. “It’s just a little cabin. A shed, really.”  
  
“There is no need to be modest, Mr Potter. I have followed your career with interest and your eel concern has an excellent reputation,” Narcissa says, pronouncing the name of Harry’s company in exactly the same way as Draco does.  
  
Caught between amusement and surprise at her interest, he just looks at her for a moment. She looks back, pale blue eyes alight with a warmth quite at odds with her stiff posture and fingers combing fitfully through the cat’s soft fur. In truth, he has no idea what to make of her at all.  
  
“Thank you,” he says eventually. “Your cats are... well... they’re very beautiful.”  
  
Narcissa seems to expand with pride as she looks around at her entourage, and Harry finds himself wondering if they are, in fact, the friends Draco had mentioned earlier.  
  
“Now you’ve done it,” Draco mutters, setting the tea tray down on the table. “Never mention the cats,” he advises, but his expression is good-natured and does not match his voice at all.  
  
Harry has no idea how he was supposed to avoid mentioning the cats. He thinks he counts sixteen of them in all, though it’s difficult to be accurate when they keep moving and chasing each other and rolling around on the floor. He doesn’t think he has exchanged a single word with Narcissa in over a decade, but she seems delighted to have someone new with whom she can discuss her cats. Harry doesn’t mind at all, but he can’t help wondering how long it has been since she saw anyone but Draco, or what has her so frightened of the outside world. He’s not going to ask, though, because Draco doesn’t seem to like questions very much, and Harry wants to hang onto this... this unexpected glimpse of serenity that the Manor and its occupants can offer him.  
  
When she has talked at length about cat personalities, welfare and misadventures, Narcissa pours herself another cup of tea and grills Harry gently about his life and work as though he is some kind of visiting dignitary. It feels odd but not unpleasant, even with Draco sitting beside him and rolling his eyes, and the presence of a cat on the table in front of them, a cat on his knee, and a cat winding around his ankles and purring hopefully.  
  
“Are you seeing anyone, Mr Potter?” she asks over the top of her cup, and Draco nearly chokes on his tea.  
  
“Harry is fine,” he says, flushing, “and no. I’m not. It’s just me. Not that that’s... not fine.”  
  
“Mother, that’s enough,” Draco says when he has finished coughing.  
  
Narcissa sighs. “Oh, Draco, don’t be so stuffy. Harry’s not offended, are you, Harry?”  
  
“No, not offended,” Harry says, though his face is still burning a few minutes later when he gets up from the table and makes his excuses. “Lovely to see you, Mrs Malfoy.”  
  
She nods, scratching the ears of the cat that has been displaced by his exit.  
  
“Please forgive my mother,” Draco says as they walk up the stairs together. “She seems to be of the opinion that her advancing age gives her licence to ask impertinent questions whenever she wants.”  
  
Harry laughs. “Draco, I think she’s a very nice lady. A very nice lady with a lot of cats.”  
  
“That’s my fault,” Draco sighs. “I gave her a cat right after we moved back in here. I didn’t realise I was sparking an obsession. Fortunately, she’s happy enough to keep them all inside so that they don’t interfere with the others... small mercies.”  
  
The look on his face is so theatrically weary that Harry wants to reach over and give him a hug. He doesn’t, of course, and as he says goodbye to Draco and Apparates back to Grimmauld Place, he wonders just where that thought has come from.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Sixth of December – Calf tattoos and purple stilettos**  
  
  
  
“Are you absolutely sure you’re happy?” Harry asks, twisting to glance at Draco, who is peering over his shoulder at the images in his sketchbook. “Because once we start this and I order all the materials, it’ll be really—”  
  
“For the fifth time, yes,” Draco interrupts, straightening up and folding his arms. “Are you always this fussy? Have I somehow given you the impression that I’m planning to make your life difficult?”  
  
Harry turns away from the marble table now and stares up at him, incredulous.  
  
“It wouldn’t exactly be a first, would it?” he points out, and for a moment, Draco just stares at him, and then he lets out a short bark of laughter.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am the very embodiment of... oh, here she is.”  
  
Harry turns to see a brightly-coloured figure making its way up the drive towards them.  
  
“Who the fuck is that?” he mumbles to himself.  
  
“It’s the vet.”  
  
“What?” Harry glances at Draco and then back at the approaching figure.  
  
Draco frowns. “That is Sandrine. The vet.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry says, quite unable to reconcile these words with the woman who is now almost upon them.  
  
When he had heard about Sandrine, her name had somehow conjured in his mind the image of a dowdy, stern-faced little witch, dressed in drab but sensible robes and well into middle age. The woman now striding towards them on a staggering pair of violet spike-heels looks as though she could destroy Harry’s preconceptions with a single, well-aimed kick. Her legs look as strong as the rest of her, and each step sends her scarlet skirts and outer robes swishing around her, revealing what appears to be a pair of intricate dragon tattoos, one wrapping around each calf.  
  
Draco waves to her, and her formidable appearance softens instantly as she grins and waves back.  
  
“Don’t look like that, she won’t bite you,” Draco says. “Try to maintain eye contact and speak clearly and you’ll be fine.”  
  
Puzzled, Harry turns to question these instructions, but Sandrine is already striding across the gravel and calling out to them.  
  
“Busy doing nothing, Draco?”  
  
Though perfectly easy to understand, her voice is loud and slightly muffled, and it only takes a second or two for Draco’s words to click into place.  
  
“That was uncalled for,” Draco says, and Harry catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. “Now you can’t use my new shed when it’s finished.”  
  
Sandrine laughs and dumps a large patchwork bag on the table next to Harry’s sketchbook.  
  
“You can sign?” he asks, astonished.  
  
“Only a little bit,” Draco says, still looking at Sandrine.  
  
She grins and turns large dark eyes to Harry. “I’d say he’s too modest, but we both know that’s not true.”  
  
Harry grins. Draco taps Sandrine’s arm and produces a series of small signs. “This is Harry Potter.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “I know, Draco. Sandrine Strickland.”  
  
She sticks out a ring-decked hand and Harry shakes it, amused both by the rather severe name and the fact that the sign for ‘Draco’ seems to involve eyebrows.  
  
“Can you do that again?” he asks, trying to copy it. “Draco?”  
  
“Draco,” she repeats, drawing her finger and thumb along one sweeping black eyebrow. As she does so, she mimics Draco’s expression of weary exasperation with stunning accuracy. “Do you have a sign name?” she asks, slowly demonstrating the gestures for ‘sign’ and ‘name’ before adding: “Would you like one?”  
  
“It’s like I’m not even here,” Draco sighs, but he doesn’t sound particularly upset, and Harry ignores him.  
  
“Yes, please,” he tells Sandrine.  
  
“I’ll have a think,” she says, smiling, and then turns her attention to Draco. “How are my hogglers doing?”  
  
“Better,” Draco says, and when he and Sandrine enter into an intense discussion about the pigs and their recovery, Harry just watches them.  
  
The afternoon sun is gently warming on his face, and if he ignores his frozen fingers he can convince himself that he’s quite comfortable. The soft light makes Draco’s pale hair glow and picks out gleaming strands of silver and purple in Sandrine’s mass of dark curls. The two of them make a strange but arresting sight with their contrasts of light and dark, slender and voluptuous. Sandrine’s laughter is raucous and she doesn’t seem to be intimidated by Draco at all. Not that Harry is intimidated, he just... he doesn’t think he could just reach out and cuff Draco on the shoulder like that. Maybe he should try it.  
  
When they head for the recovery area, Harry follows them. He knows he has to be at the Burrow very soon if he wants to avoid Molly’s wrath, but one last check of the site won’t hurt, especially as he’s just about ready to start gathering wood and equipment. They are accompanied, inevitably, by Harold and his friends, and Sandrine laughs when the little black Puffskein darts between her legs.  
  
“You’ve met Harold and Chase?” she asks.  
  
“Chase?” Harry asks, amused.  
  
She shrugs. “Chase,” she repeats, adding an unmistakable sign and laughing as the Puffskein hurtles along the track after Harold.  
  
“The duck is Peter,” Draco says with an air of ‘none of this has anything to do with me’ that Harry doesn’t believe for a second.  
  
“Of course,” Harry grins, watching the pink duck waddling after his friends with slow determination.  
  
“Everyone here has a name. Draco makes sure of it,” Sandrine says, blithely throwing her colleague under the bus and then abandoning him to attend to the hogglers.  
  
Draco’s weary sigh feels wonderful, and Harry smiles to himself all the way to the woods.  
  
**~*~**  
  
Harry arrives at the Burrow just as Molly is beginning to fret. In an effort to placate her, he takes his place at the table between Ginny and George and fills his plate as quickly as he can. As always, the food is delicious and plentiful, and he finds he is more than ready for it.  
  
“It’s probably all that fresh air,” Molly says when some helpful person points out that Harry’s appetite seems to have improved. “It’s good for you, you know.”  
  
Harry smiles at her and eats another roast potato. It’s excellent, and he knows there is no more use in reminding Molly that he always works outdoors in the fresh air than there is in trying to figure out how everyone around the table seems to know about his new project already. He suspects that his focus will be better used to help him with putting away enough dinner to keep his family happy.  
  
Like Ron, Molly seems to be attempting to heal Harry by stuffing him full of food. Unlike Ron, who would happily stuff the Sunday roast with habaneros given half a chance, Molly has not yet attempted to burn Harry’s mouth, but it hasn’t escaped his notice that everything from the roast potatoes to the chicken and the gravy is heavily laced with garlic. Fortunately, everything still tastes fantastic, but all of them are going to require some heavy duty freshening spells at the end of it.  
  
“Don’t worry, Perce, it’s not like you’ve got anyone to kiss,” George says when his brother dares to venture a comment about the pungent nature of the meal.  
  
“Neither have you,” Percy says crossly, folding his napkin in long, freckled fingers.  
  
“I’ll have you know I’ve got a hot date lined up for Friday night,” George says. “Don’t worry, Mum, I’m sure the smell will have worn off by then.”  
  
“Behave yourselves or there’ll be no crumble,” Molly says, just as Ron whispers:  
  
“Is it that girl from Quality Quidditch Supplies?”  
  
George just grins and Ron nods approvingly. Hermione rolls her eyes. Molly and Arthur leave the table and return minutes later with a vast, piping hot tray of apple and blackberry crumble and a jug of custard. Arthur distributes bowls and spoons and Molly cuts into the crumble, releasing waves of hot, sweet-smelling steam. Harry’s nostrils twitch with interest, but his stomach is so full that he can’t summon up much enthusiasm even when Arthur hands him a huge portion and smiles at him encouragingly.  
  
He isn’t exactly sure how he gets through it, but finally he clears his bowl and drops his spoon into it. He can barely breathe with the pressure in his abdomen, and whichever way he tries to sit, some part of his clothing tightens painfully against his belly. He can’t help but notice that his portion of crumble is at least twice the size of everyone else’s, and that almost all of them have moved on to cups of tea while waiting for him to finish.  
  
“Shall I pour you a cup, Harry? You look a bit pale,” Molly says, eyes full of concern.  
  
“No, thanks,” Harry manages, the very thought of more anything making his mouth water unpleasantly.  
  
“Mum, stop it, he’s going to explode,” Ginny says, sounding mostly worried and a little intrigued.  
  
“Better stand back,” George advises, and Harry smiles at him weakly.  
  
“I’m fine. I promise. All of you... it’s lovely of you to worry about me, but I’m okay. And yes, if I eat or drink another thing, it’s probably going to get messy.”  
  
Molly sighs and Hermione pulls out her wand. “Did you relax today?” she demands.  
  
Harry hesitates, unsure how to respond.  
  
“If he says no, are you going to hex him?” Ron asks.  
  
“No one is hexing anyone at my dinner table,” Molly puts in. “Hermione, put that away.”  
  
“Won’t be a minute.” Casting her an apologetic look, Hermione tugs Harry to his feet and out into the garden, where he breathes in the cold air deeply and leans against the house, trying desperately not to move in a way that might anger his stomach.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing, I just wanted to check you over and the last time I made Molly cross at the table, I didn’t get any gravy for a month,” Hermione says, flicking her wand and casting the now-familiar humming spells.  
  
Pinned by the sheer weight of food inside him, Harry submits to the examination.  
  
“Yes,” he says eventually. “I relaxed. I finalised the plans for Draco’s shed and met a friend of his. She was very... why are you looking at me like that?”  
  
“You were at the Manor? Working? Harry, it’s Sunday... I don’t even know what to do with you,” Hermione sighs, pulling her leather book from her pocket and scribbling in it.  
  
“You can do anything you want with me as long as I don’t have to move,” he says, groaning as he feels the first prickles of indigestion.  
  
“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” she says, regarding him sternly through an orange and green haze.  
  
Harry frowns thoughtfully. “I think I am, that’s the weird thing. And you know... I didn’t really think that hard about it being the weekend,” he says, and it’s the truth.  
  
Without the usual markers of his working week, he’s been cast adrift. The days of the week don’t really mean anything, and without even noticing, he has passed a whole six of them without even visiting the office. He hasn’t been away for so long since the company was formed, and now, even with Hermione standing right in front of him, he wonders if it isn’t just a bit too long. There’s relaxing and there’s wasting time, and he doesn’t think it will hurt to just nip down there tomorrow and check that everything is okay.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
He blinks. The coloured fields have dissolved and Hermione is looking at him with a rather odd expression on her face.  
  
“How is everything?” he asks, pushing down a flicker of guilt with some effort.  
  
“Better than I expected. You’re obviously doing something right,” she says, smiling at him. “Let’s try another week of the same, shall we?”  
  
Harry stares at her. “You mean take another week off work?”  
  
“And functions,” she says. “The world will go on without you for a little while, Harry. If you’ve found something that’s working for you, you should stick with it.”  
  
“Hermione, I can’t. This was fine for a week, but I need to—”  
  
She folds her arms. “I know I’m not a Mind Healer, Harry, but I’ve done my rotations just like everyone else, and I’ve studied cases of people who have taken years to find something that helps them to relax as much as this. The readings don’t lie,” she says, holding up the book. “Being up there is helping you. Draco is helping you, maybe... I don’t know. Whatever it is, you have to keep doing it.”  
  
She gazes up at him for long seconds and then hugs him quite deliberately, squashing his bloated stomach and forcing a groan out into the cold air. He scowls at her and she smiles, tucking her wand, quill and book back into her pockets.  
  
“Come on. Before she comes looking for us.”  
  
Harry sighs and follows her into the house.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Seventh of December – Fancy shopping bags**  
  
  
  
The ink has barely dried on Harry’s letter to Draco when he changes his mind and decides that he does want to spend the day at the Manor after all. Unfortunately, the entire smudged, apologetic mess is already attached to the back of an owl, somewhere high above London, and he is stuck with his decision. As he buttons up his coat and steps out into the crisp morning, a little voice that sounds a lot like Hermione asks him what on earth he thinks he’s doing, but he shakes it away and strides forcefully in the direction of the EALS office. At least he’s walking, he thinks, taking a deep breath when his conscience swipes at him again and his stomach attempts to leap into his throat. He can’t remember when he last had time for that.  
  
It’s progress. Of a fashion.  
  
The walk is surprisingly calming, and it’s only when the office comes into view that Harry’s nerves get the better of him. He hesitates on the pavement outside, looking up at the bold, red and silver sign above the door, and listening to the voices that drift down from an open window.  
  
He swallows hard against the knot in his chest and attempts to master himself. There is nothing to feel strange about... or guilty about, he tells himself firmly. This is his company and all he wants is to order the materials for Draco’s shed and just make sure that everything is... fine. Fine, just like he is. Absolutely and totally... Harry sighs and lets himself into the building before he can change his mind.  
  
He climbs the stairs slowly, breathing in the familiar scents of parchment, ink, and the horrible health drinks that Alexander mixes up every day for his breakfast. Harry wrinkles his nose and then smiles, thinking as he always does that nothing that smells so disgusting can be all that good for anybody. He opens the door to the outer office and finds it empty, but spots a stack of order forms on Hannah’s desk and helps himself to several. A quick glance around reveals that everything looks very much as it usually does, and he perches in Pyotr’s swivelly chair to wait for company.  
  
After a minute, a tousled blond head appears in the doorway connecting the outer office to the kitchen, and round blue eyes widen behind wire-rimmed spectacles.  
  
“He’s here!” Alexander bellows, and his colleagues barrel into the office.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says, frowning when all three of them exchange significant looks.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Hannah asks, regarding him with her hands on her hips. “And... er... hi.”  
  
“This was my office the last time I checked,” Harry says easily. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”  
  
“This is a mutiny,” Pyotr says, expression completely deadpan. “We are overthrowing your authority now.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
Alexander seems to falter for a moment and then nods, pulling himself up to his full height of about five feet and four inches and folding his arms across his chest.  
  
“A mutiny,” he says. “Like on a ship. Only less piratey and more based on our concern and respect for you as a person and a boss and... and...”  
  
“And a friend,” Hannah continues, looking more stern than Harry has ever seen her. In fact, he doesn’t think he has ever seen her look stern before, and the effect is quite unsettling.  
  
“Have you been talking to Hermione by any chance?” he asks.  
  
“We have been putting the two and two together,” Pyotr says, fixing him with coal-dark eyes. “We have seen that you are not on your best health and we have decided to take actions.”  
  
“Have you?” Harry says faintly, gazing up at all three of them and taking in their defiant posture, their serious faces and the air of tense expectation that seems to have filled the room.  
  
“Yes,” Hannah says. “We care about you, Harry, and we can’t let you carry on like this. You’re a brilliant boss and we love working for you and if you don’t take a break then there isn’t going to be any you fit to work for and we’re just not having it.”  
  
“We’ve closed commissions until the new year,” Alexander says. “We thought that—”  
  
“You’ve done what?” Harry interrupts, jerking upright in his seat.  
  
“We’ve closed commissions,” Alexander repeats, voice wobbling slightly. “And we’ve divided up the rest of the work between us. Everything’s organised.”  
  
Harry stares at him, stomach tipping unpleasantly. “Everything’s organised,” he repeats.  
  
“Yes. You should go home now and put your feet on,” Pyotr says.  
  
Hannah and Alexander look at him in confusion and then amusement.  
  
“Up. Put your feet up, as in sit down and rest them,” Hannah says, and Pyotr gazes at her with his mouth slightly open, appearing to forget all about the mutiny for a moment.  
  
“This makes sense now,” he says, granting Hannah a brief smile and then turning back to Harry with a face like stone. “You should go home and put your feet up,” he rephrases.  
  
“Have you all gone mad?” Harry demands, rising from his chair and rolling his order forms into a tight little tube at his side. “You can’t just... this is my office... I’m not just going to let you take over!”  
  
“It’s only temporary,” Alexander assures, slipping around behind him and pushing him towards the door with surprising strength that makes Harry vaguely curious about the benefits of horrible health drinks. “Just until the new year. Nothing to worry about.”  
  
Bewildered and quietly fuming, Harry manages to turn around in the doorway and stare at his staff.  
  
“Guys, this isn’t funny. Do you really think I’m just going to let you...?”  
  
“Sorry, Harry,” Hannah whispers, and then pokes her wand out of her sleeve and casts an explosive charm that shoves Harry onto the landing and locks the door behind him.  
  
“... kick me out,” Harry finishes with a sigh.  
  
He scowls at the door and its cheery sign reading: WELCOME TO EVANS AMAZING LIVING SPACES – IF YOU CAN DREAM IT, WE CAN BUILD IT.  
  
He can’t quite resist trying the door, but when it doesn’t open with a push or a quick Alohomora, he swears under his breath and stomps down the stairs. Yes, he could find a spell that would force it open; he could storm in there and shout until his voice gives out. He could sack the lot of them if he wanted to—start all over again with staff who know how to behave.  
  
He could do all sorts of things... but he doesn’t. In the end, all he can bring himself to do is walk. He walks down the street and away from the office, heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears. He walks without any real idea of where he is going, past cars and houses and trees and shops, just pushing himself along until he is breathing so hard that his chest burns and his confused rage begins to slip away.  
  
He doesn’t want staff who know how to behave. He wants kind Hannah and sensitive Alexander and inscrutable Pyotr. They are all excellent at their jobs and each of them seems to care about him for some reason. In a move completely separate from Hermione’s intervention, they are attempting to rescue Harry from himself, and perhaps it’s time for him to start listening to the lot of them. Besides, something about the memory of their tough expressions and studied ruthlessness is sort of charming, and as Harry spies the Leaky Cauldron in the distance and heads towards it, he starts to smile.  
  
“You look happy this morning, Mr Potter,” Tom says, grinning at him from behind the bar.  
  
Harry laughs. “It’s a strange day today, Tom.”  
  
“Those are the best ones,” the barman says mysteriously, and he waves to Harry as he steps out through the back door and spells the archway open.  
  
Diagon Alley is bustling with people, and Harry is surprised until he catches sight of the coloured lights around every shop window and remembers that most people do not leave their festive preparations as late as he does. Still, if this morning is anything to go by, today could be a day to break the habit of a lifetime, so he steps into the crowds and allows himself to be carried. When he reaches a small open-air market near the top of the alley, he extracts himself and spends several minutes browsing the stalls.  
  
Deciding that it will make a nice change for at least some of his presents to be considered rather than panic-bought, he buys hats and gloves for Molly and Arthur, a set of soothing bath potions for Hermione, and a backpack in the shape of a frost snail for Rose. After a steaming cup of spiced apple juice bought from an old witch who winks at him and tells him what a handsome young man he is, he heads for the shops. He buys shiny new books and delicious-smelling relishes and more limited edition firewhisky miniatures than he really knows what to do with.  
  
He emerges from the chocolatier’s with boxes of treats for his mutinous colleagues and adds the shiny, string-handled bag to the mass of others that now deck both forearms. For a moment, he gazes down at his purchases with satisfaction, and then he looks up at the alley and freezes. The crowd seems to have swelled, turning from a stream of chattering individuals into a seething, undulating mass into which everything is at risk of being sucked.  
  
Harry grips his bags with cold, slippery fingers and backs instinctively against the wall of the chocolate shop. Something is swirling in the pit of his stomach and he can’t quite seem to catch his breath. As the edges of his vision seem to blur and darken, he blinks furiously, grasping for control. The noise of the crowd roars in his ears and the mingled scents of the street conspire to choke him where he stands.  
  
“Are you alright, love?” someone asks.  
  
Harry jumps. On the steps of the shop, a woman with kind eyes is regarding him anxiously.  
  
All at once feeling rather silly, he nods and manages to smile at her.  
  
“Just zoned out for a moment,” he says. “Thanks.”  
  
She smiles at him and opens the door to the shop with a clang. Harry drags in a deep breath, holds fast to his bags and Disapparates.  
  
He is almost puzzled to find himself outside the gates of the Manor, and he feels grateful that no one from the Ministry’s Apparation Regulation Team is around to witness his inattention. All he really knows is that he had wanted to feel safe and calm, and it would appear that his subconscious has opted for Malfoy Manor over his own house. Which is... odd, to say the least.  
  
Transferring all of the bags to one arm, Harry draws his wand to cast his Patronus and stops. He can hear voices, and though he cannot see Draco and Sandrine, they are definitely somewhere nearby. He thinks about calling out to them but something about their conversation makes him hesitate.  
  
“He’s allowed to have a day off, Draco,” Sandrine says, voice carrying effortlessly across the grounds. “It’s not as though you’re even paying him.”  
  
“I know that,” Draco says crossly. “It’s not about the shed and you know it isn’t.”  
  
Behind the gates, Harry draws in a sharp breath. He can, at least, breathe properly here, but his mind is racing. He presses himself against the cold iron of the gates and waits.  
  
Sandrine is laughing. “How’s he supposed to know if you never say anything?”  
  
“Are we going to have a problem?” Draco demands, and Sandrine laughs even harder.  
  
“Yeah, probably... if you think I’m frightened of you,” she says.  
  
“Are you frightened of anyone?” Draco asks, sounding amused. Harry frowns, puzzled.  
  
“Your mother, sometimes,” Sandrine says. “When she keeps asking me about my love life. You’d think she might have lost interest now I’m married, but she hasn’t.”  
  
Draco groans. “Did I tell you that she’s started on Harry?”  
  
“Only fifty or sixty times.”  
  
“Well, it’s awful,” Draco says. “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do about him.”  
  
Harry doesn’t catch Sandrine’s response because he is so focused on Draco’s words. He had thought that the two of them were getting along rather well, but now it seems obvious that Draco views him as some sort of problem to be dealt with. Confused and hurt, he lets go of the gate and Apparates back to his cold, untidy house. As he dumps the bags on a chair, he realises that he has forgotten to buy a Christmas present for Draco.  
  
“Good,” he says to the empty living room.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Eighth of December – Packing Crates**  
  
  
  
Following a restless night’s sleep, Harry wakes just after five and spends the next hour or two gazing moodily at the dark sky outside his window. Draco’s words to Sandrine continue to swim around in his head and there doesn’t seem to be any way of dislodging them. The frustration clear in his voice echoes in Harry’s ears and seems to quicken and amplify until it is nothing more than a relentless, pounding rhythm that threatens to explode and smash his weary sanity to pieces.  
  
It makes little to no sense that Draco’s opinion of him matters so much, and the fact that it somehow does makes Harry feel unsettled. The last thing he wants to do is think about it, but as the sky begins to lighten and he forces himself to get out of bed, the thought refuses to leave him alone. Finally, after two cups of coffee, a piece of toast burnt almost completely in his inattention, and a letter to Teddy with answers to his excited questions about his first end of term feast, Harry steps into a pounding hot shower and gives in.  
  
Fine. Why does he care? Probably because he likes Draco and he wants to be his friend. A proper friend, not just someone to sit with at formal events. Not just someone who pops into his life every week or so in immaculate, mint-scented dress robes and then fades back out until the next one.  
Someone who knows him, knows the stupid little things he worries about and the things he wants to do most of all. Someone who can be his... Harry gasps as the water turns scalding and scrabbles at the dial until it starts to behave itself. He doesn’t exactly know what the end of that sentence is, but perhaps it’s best not to worry about it right now.  
  
The important thing is that he is a professional. He has a custom designed, high quality shed to build, and as much as Draco’s opinion of him stings, it has no business interfering with his project. The plans have been drawn, the materials have been ordered, and the reputation of Evans Amazing Living Spaces is not something he is willing to put aside.  
  
With that in mind, Harry arrives at the Manor gates before nine and is surprised to find them unlocked. Attached to the gatepost and written in Draco’s small, neat script is the instruction:  
  
_Harry – lock up behind you._  
  
Frowning, he does so and crunches slowly up the drive, baffled by what appears to be a gesture of trust after all that has been said. He supposes that Draco’s behaviour has never made all that much sense to him; he doesn’t know why he thinks it should start to now. Despite all of his attempts at rationalisation, though, he can’t stop the swoop of his stomach when he spots Draco coming out of the clinic with a baby badger in his arms. He doesn’t, of course, smile, but there’s a warmth in his eyes as he greets Harry that causes the pounding and confusion in his head to start all over again.  
  
“Good morning,” he says, shivering slightly when the badger pokes its nose into his ear. “Are you alright? You look a bit odd.”  
  
Harry bristles, unable to keep a rebellious scowl from flickering across his face.  
  
“I’m sure I always look pretty odd to you,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and quietly loathing himself when Draco blinks in genuine confusion.  
  
“You’re being pretty odd right now,” he says, scrutinising Harry for a moment and then walking past him to return the badger to its kennel. “Your things have arrived,” he calls over his shoulder as he crouches in front of the injured fox and examines it through the mesh. “Do you want some tea first? I’m making a pot for me and my mother.”  
  
Something about this offer makes Harry want to smile, but instead, he shakes his head.  
  
“Thanks, but I’d better get on,” he says and hurries away down the path before he changes his mind and says something stupid. He has the feeling Draco is watching him go but he doesn’t turn around.  
  
At the edge of the wood, he finds a whole mess of wooden crates, and the sight of them almost sweeps his worries about Draco completely from his mind. In a rush of excitement, he draws his wand and spells each one open in turn until the cold morning air is full of the scent of wood and iron and protective magic. He checks the contents carefully against the list in the back of his sketchbook and then checks again with a neat little charm that detects even the slightest flaw or speck of damage. When he is satisfied, he casts a huge, looping weather-proof spell around the lot.  
  
While the sun creeps high overhead, he loses himself in the rhythm of his work, humming under his breath as he checks the ground one last time and then prepares for the magical foundations that will keep the little building steady in even the fiercest of winds. When he is satisfied that everything is in place for work to begin on the wooden framework, he lowers himself onto a pile of rough logs and gulps water from a charm-chilled canteen. Sticky with exertion and breathing hard, he leans back and allows the wind to refresh him in long, savage gusts.  
  
The scents of the wood are intoxicating, and he closes his eyes for a moment in order to enjoy them properly. When he hears a noise that doesn’t belong with the rest, though, he jerks upright and looks around quickly. At first, he sees nothing but the usual rustle of the sparse, clinging leaves and the occasional flicker of movement from the small animals, but finally, something staggers out from between the trees that sends his stomach into freefall.  
  
Moving slowly and with a painful, awkward gait, is an injured great hoggler. Almost identical to the one currently lying unconscious in Draco’s recovery area, this animal is a little larger and seems to be carrying something in her mouth. Harry gets to his feet and approaches her slowly, trying not to make a sound but feeling sure that the panicked hammering of his heart must be enough to frighten the poor thing. To his surprise, the pig pays him no attention at all, seeming to focus all of her energy on dragging herself along the path towards the Manor, and when Harry finally gets behind her, the shock of understanding makes him feel sick.  
  
Clamped around the pig’s left hind leg is a horrifying device made of metal teeth and springs, heavy enough to scrape along the bumpy path with each shaky step. The hoggler’s ginger fur is streaked with blood and gore from hip to hoof and the lower section of the leg has been crushed and broken, now snarled up in the metal teeth and dangling at an unnatural angle. As she forces herself along the path, she lets out such harrowing sounds of distress that Harry forgets all about trying not to alarm her and just scrambles onto his knees at her side, using all of his strength to persuade her to come to a halt.  
  
“Okay, okay,” he whispers, holding her firmly and noticing for the first time that the thing she is so carefully carrying in her mouth is a tiny, shivering ginger piglet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles, making a split-second decision and pulling out his wand to send his Patronus to Draco.  
  
He’ll know what to do. At least, Harry hopes he will.  
  
When Draco arrives a minute or two later, his face turns paler than Harry has ever seen it and he breaks into a run. Without a word, he examines the mangled leg and runs a careful hand down the pig’s back.  
  
“Call Sandrine,” he says finally.  
  
Harry hesitates for a moment too long and Draco looks as though he’s about to rush Harry and kick him to his feet.  
  
“Now. Please.”  
  
Harry nods and scrambles to his feet. “Where shall I..?”  
  
“Go to my mother’s kitchen,” Draco says, drawing his wand and casting a pulsing green spell around the pig’s injured leg. “You can use her fireplace. Ask for Sandrine’s office and tell her it’s happened again... tell her it’s bad.”  
  
Chest tightening at the flicker of panic in Draco’s voice, Harry turns and runs. He flies along the path, kicking up stones, past the pens and up onto the portico, tracking muddy footprints across the entrance hall and all the way down the steps into the stone-flagged kitchen. To his relief, Narcissa is already there, standing at the fireplace and toasting bread on a long fork.  
  
“Please can I use your Floo? It’s an emergency.”  
  
Narcissa’s eyes flick over his dishevelled appearance for a moment and then she nods, stepping back and nudging a large orange cat out of his way with her foot.  
  
“The powder is in the blue pot,” she says, and then she doesn’t speak again until Harry has reached Sandrine’s surgery and managed to leave an urgent message with her receptionist.  
  
“It’s a terrible thing,” Narcissa says at last. “It never gets any easier to see... not for me and certainly not for Draco. Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps a brandy?”  
  
“Thanks, but I don’t want to leave him out there on his own for too long,” Harry says, turning to leave. He hangs back in the doorway. “It happens a lot, does it?”  
  
“Many more times than it should. I take it that Draco has told you about the traps?”  
  
“Erm... no,” Harry admits. “He did mention something about the woods being dangerous, but that was it. He can be a bit...”  
  
He stops, realising that it might not be prudent to share with Narcissa the full extent of his exasperation about her son.  
  
Narcissa grants him an odd half-smile. “Indeed he can. Please tell him I’m sorry, won’t you?”  
  
Harry nods and turns for the stairs, racing back through the house and along the path towards Draco, who is now wrapping the fragile piglet in what looks like his own scarf.  
  
“She’s coming,” he says, and before five minutes have passed, Sandrine is hurrying along the path towards them, clutching her patchwork bag and looking apologetic.  
  
The purple streaks in her hair have been replaced with electric blue ones that match the laces in her long boots, and as she begins to examine the pig, Harry idly wonders if she changes their colour to match each new outfit. Before long, though, he has to pay attention to the grisly scene in front of him, and when the mother pig begins to stagger and sway, Sandrine directs him and Draco to lift her and carry her to the clinic. They move slowly, conscious of the animal’s distressed cries, while Sandrine walks ahead with the piglet, turning every few steps to show the mother that her offspring is safe.  
  
Inside the clinic, the piglet is passed to Harry and he holds it protectively in the folds of Draco’s scarf, glancing between its twitching snout and closed eyes and the flurry of activity on the examination table. Draco’s face is tight and he drums his fingers impatiently against his upper arms while Sandrine frowns and attends to the animal, cleaning the wound with spells and cloths soaked in hot water and then peering at the leg with a strange little brass monocle screwed into one eye. The sterile little room is soon filled with magical static, and the smells of antiseptic and wild pigs compete for dominance, eventually settling into a fug that is oddly reminiscent of Harry’s primary school days.  
  
“I can’t fix this leg, Draco,” Sandrine says eventually, removing her monocle and meeting Draco’s eyes.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes. It’s too badly damaged and the whole thing is infected. I think this must have happened a while ago, and now the only chance to save her is to remove the leg completely. I’m sorry,” she says, and Harry cringes in sympathy with her, holding the piglet a little more tightly.  
  
“I checked for traps last night,” Draco says quietly.  
  
“Last night is enough,” Sandrine says. “It only takes the wrong kind of insect to get into the wound and the infection can build in just a few hours.”  
  
Draco’s jaw tightens and then he turns swiftly and kicks out at the nearest whitewashed wall.  
  
“Fuck them,” he hisses, pulling himself together as quickly as he had lost control. “Just... fuck them.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Draco. It’s not your fault,” Sandrine says, and Harry has the feeling this isn’t the first time they have had this exact conversation.  
  
He wants to ask when this started, who is responsible, why they would want to do such a thing, but he keeps his mouth shut. If Draco doesn’t want to talk to him about the traps, he can’t force him, and besides, he doesn’t suppose his questions will do any good. Whatever the details of the situation, they have a beautiful wild pig with a very uncertain future and a piglet that doesn’t seem ready to be facing the world without its mother.  
  
“She brought it to you,” he says suddenly, looking up at Draco.  
  
Draco frowns and rubs at his face. “What?”  
  
“It’s true,” Sandrine says, tapping at the table until Draco turns to look at her. “Usually you find them in the woods. This is the first time one of them managed to drag itself out and I think Harry’s right.”  
  
“You’ve both lost me,” Draco says, and Sandrine looks at Harry for help.  
  
“When she got hurt, she decided to bring her baby to you,” he says. “Maybe she knew you could look after it.”  
  
Draco stares at him. “Do you really think so?” he asks quietly. All of the anger seems to have drained out of him, leaving only a prickly sort of vulnerability that pulls at Harry and makes him want to promise that everything will be fine.  
  
“Yeah, I do think so,” Harry says, and when Draco holds his arms out for the piglet, he passes it over and shares a relieved glance with Sandrine.  
  
“Right,” she says loudly. “Both of you out. I have surgery to do.”  
  
Harry smiles at her and follows Draco out into the fresh air.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco says, glancing at the streaks of blood on his hands and then tucking them into the folds of the scarf and out of sight.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“But I will,” Draco adds, and then he lets out his breath in a messy rush.  
  
Harry says nothing. He has no idea what to think, no idea what to feel, and the man standing at his side and talking softly to a frightened piglet is not making any of it any easier. In the end, he looks up at the wide open sky, takes a deep breath, and tries not to think of anything at all.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Ninth of December – A fat squirrel**  
  
  
  
The sun is beginning to set over the Manor grounds when Sandrine emerges from the clinic and pronounces the injured hoggler stable, but by no means out of danger. Harry stays with them until Draco practically kicks him into the nearest fireplace, insisting that everything is under control, and Harry complies, even though the tension pulling at the sharp features tells him a different story. He doesn’t want to outstay his welcome, and besides, he is absolutely exhausted.  
  
The moment he steps out into his kitchen, his body seems to sag and sway, and it’s all he can do to owl an apologetic note to Ron and Hermione cancelling their dinner plans before he hauls himself up the stairs, struggles out of his clothes and crawls into bed.  
  
When he wakes, his bedroom is full of soft pink light and he realises that he has once again managed to sleep through his six o’clock alarm. Impulsively, he reaches out and switches it off completely and then rolls out of bed feeling rebellious and surprisingly refreshed. It isn’t until he notices the smears of blood on his skin that the reality of the previous day comes rushing back, but when it does, he stands in the middle of his bedroom floor, naked and shivering and head full of wrenching, desperate cries.  
  
_Tell her it’s happened again._  
  
Draco’s voice threads itself into the mix and Harry shivers harder.  
  
Again.  
  
_It never gets any easier to see_ , Narcissa reminds him. _Not for me and certainly not for Draco._  
  
Harry shudders and races for the shower, where he scrubs and sluices until the streaks of blood are a distant memory and there is nothing but steam and pink skin and the comforting scent of cedar.  
  
The gates have been left unlocked for him again, and he lets himself in quietly, loath to disturb the silent, frosted serenity that seems to have settled over the grounds in his absence. As he walks towards the house, a grey squirrel streaks out from the cover of a group of trees and undulates its way across the lawn. Harry watches it, struck by its rounded shape and wondering just how many nuts it has had to consume to achieve it.  
  
As though hearing his thoughts, the squirrel turns to look at him, tiny eyes bright and twitching front paws held aloft. Something about this posture makes Harry’s imagination give it a waistcoat and a pocket watch and he smiles, letting out a plume of ghostly white breath into the cold air.  
  
“Good morning, sir,” he murmurs, and the squirrel gazes up at him with massive dignity.  
  
Lifted, Harry picks up his pace, crunching his fear and uncertainty beneath his feet. He has no doubt that Sandrine is an excellent vet—Draco would never settle for anything but—and if anyone can help those animals, she can. As though recognising his new bearing of hope, the fat squirrel follows him, darting back and forth across his path and stopping every now and then to peer up at him as if to say, ‘am I not entertaining?’ and ‘what have you got in your pockets?’  
  
Harry has nothing to offer, but the squirrel accompanies him almost all the way up to the house, just disappearing out of sight at the last moment and leaving Harry to make the short journey around the side of the building to the recovery area by himself. Half-frozen but smiling, he turns the last corner to find Draco sitting on the ground with knees drawn up and arms cradling a bundle of fabric. He startles at the sound of footsteps and every good feeling in Harry’s body seems to evaporate at the look on his face.  
  
“What happened?” Harry asks, almost in a whisper.  
  
Draco seems to look through him rather than at him. “She died.”  
  
Harry swallows hard. His fingers curl into fists at his sides and all of the tension he has been trying to fight screams back into his muscles in an instant. “I’m so sorry, Draco. When did... I mean...”  
  
“About an hour ago,” Sandrine says, and Harry is startled to realise that she has been standing at the door to the clinic since he arrived. “Septicaemia. Blood poisoning. We removed the leg but the infection was already in the rest of her body. She went into septic shock and I couldn’t get her to respond. I tried everything.”  
  
“I’m sure you did,” Harry says. “And... the baby?”  
  
For a moment, no one speaks, and Harry just stares at the motionless bundle of fabric in Draco’s arms. The piglet had been so small and so quiet, and now, without its mother, perhaps not quite strong enough. Harry pulls in a deep breath, surprised to feel the hot sting of tears behind his eyelids.  
  
“She’s stubborn,” Draco says at last. “Like you.”  
  
Carefully, he folds back the blanket, allowing Harry to see the curious twitch of a tiny snout.  
  
Astonished, Harry lets out a soft huff of laughter and crosses the flagstones to lower himself down beside Draco.  
  
“She’s a she?” he asks, gazing down at the little ginger snout until Draco covers it over again.  
  
“Yes. I’m calling her Briana,” Draco says. “It means strength, and she’s going to need it.”  
  
“What she needs is plenty of warmth, food and attention,” Sandrine says, staring at Draco as she signs along with her words. “She’ll get that here.”  
  
Harry smiles at her, as he does, noticing that she is wearing the same clothes he saw her in yesterday. Like Draco, she looks worn out, and he wonders if she has even been home. When she disappears back into the clinic, he turns back to Draco, and what he sees hits him with the force of a Stunning Spell to the stomach. Draco, too, is dressed in the same trousers, jumper and wellington boots as the day before, but that’s not what makes Harry feel as though the world has stopped spinning underneath him. It’s all of it—the hair ruffled from raking fingers and flopping over his forehead, the dark smudge under each eye, the dirt under otherwise immaculate fingernails and the smear of blood across one pale cheek.  
  
As he stares, Draco blinks slowly, shakes himself and cradles the little pig against his chest with such care that Harry aches.  
  
Draco is real. He really is. He has no idea how he could have ever thought otherwise.  
  
This person, who has clearly stayed up all night to take care of a motherless piglet, is so far removed from the shiny, acid-tongued man who exists at all the right functions that Harry has no idea what to do any more. He stares at Draco, feeling bewildered and admiring and a little bit warm.  
  
Seeming to feel his eyes on him, Draco looks up. He lifts an eyebrow, and the gesture is so familiar and yet shocking that all Harry can offer in response is a lopsided sort of smile.  
  
“Are you alright?” Draco asks after a moment.  
  
Harry gathers himself, pulling up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. He’s safe. He’s fine. He’s just... having a little moment.  
  
“Never mind me—have you really been up all night with her?”  
  
“Briana and I have been bonding,” Draco says. “The process is rather helped by the fact that she needs to be fed every two hours at the moment.”  
  
He yawns and Harry catches it, smothering the sound with the back of his hand.  
  
“Milk, or...?”  
  
“Milk,” Draco nods. “We borrowed a bit from Melissa over there and then managed to conjure more of the same.”  
  
Harry follows his gaze over to the kennel containing the sick hoggler and her three piglets.  
  
“Didn’t she mind?”  
  
“I don’t think she even noticed. Sandrine is very clever about things like that,” Draco says, yawning again.  
  
“How long will you have to hand-rear her?” Harry asks, partly out of curiosity and partly so that he can think about something besides the raw feeling inside him set off by Draco’s weary dishevelment.  
  
“Not too long, if all goes to plan,” Draco says, shifting on the ground and brushing his elbow against Harry’s. “I’m hoping we can put her in with Melissa’s family. That way, she’ll be raised as she would in the wild, and when they’re all ready, they can go back into the woods together.”  
  
“But it’s not safe in the woods, is it?” Harry says quietly.  
  
Draco lets out a harsh breath. He stares holes into the side of the clinic for long seconds before answering.  
  
“I’m trying to make it safe. You don’t understand what it’s like.”  
  
Harry bites his lip hard. _Tell me, then_ , he wants to say, but he knows this isn’t the time to push.  
  
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he says, and then silence falls over the courtyard.  
  
Harry rests his chin on his knees and stares at the ground, allowing the painful images of blood and distress and fear to swirl around him. He thinks of the word ‘stable’ on Sandrine’s lips, and then Draco’s hollow expression and poor Briana, stolen away from her mother by some heartless bastard with a liking for metal traps.  
  
Life _is_ short. He’s always known it. It’s too short and too unpredictable to waste. The only trouble is, Harry no longer has any idea what living actually looks like. He thought he knew, but now everything seems to be upside down and he can’t say with any confidence that he knows what he’s doing, and as for where Draco Malfoy fits into all of it, he has no clue.  
  
He has just about decided that what he needs to do right now is go and work on the shed when the fat squirrel reappears, darting along the path from the house with what appears to be a bit of bread in its mouth. This time, it is followed by Narcissa, who sweeps along the path towards them, nibbling on a piece of toast that appears to have a corner missing. Without her army of cats she seems rather a lonely figure, but she walks with purpose, and when Draco sees her his face relaxes just a little bit.  
  
“May I take her?” she asks. “Hello, Harry.”  
  
“Hi, Mrs Malfoy,” he says, making to scramble to his feet but staying put at the sight of her quelling look.  
  
She leans down at takes the bundle from Draco, drawing back the blanket and stroking the ginger hair with a pale, elegant hand.  
  
“Do you want to feed her?” Draco asks, and to Harry’s surprise, she accepts the tiny bottle and holds Briana close to her chest, apparently unconcerned about her beautiful robes.  
  
“There you are,” she murmurs, gazing down at the little pig with real tenderness, and then up at Draco with the kind of exasperation that only a mother can summon. “Draco, you look dreadful. Why don’t you go and have a bath and change your clothes? I’m sure we can cope for a little while.”  
  
Draco sighs and opens his mouth to speak. After a moment, he shuts it again, realising, perhaps, that his mother’s words are not really a suggestion. He shoots Harry a now-familiar weary glance and leaves without a word, shoulders drooping with each step. Narcissa smiles at Harry and he has the sinking feeling that she is about to mention his love life when Sandrine strides out of the clinic and rescues him.  
  
“Hi, Mrs Malfoy,” she says, and Harry is delighted to note that Narcissa’s sign name seems to be a pair of whiskers drawn against one cheek.  
  
“Hello, Sandrine,” Narcissa says, turning to face her. “I’m very sorry about your patient.”  
  
Sandrine nods and grants her a tight smile. “Thank you. It’s very sad. But we have Briana, and we have to be grateful for that.”  
  
Narcissa smiles back, glancing down at the little pig for a moment. “I’ve set up a tea tray on the front lawn. Perhaps you and Harry would like to join me.”  
  
Harry hesitates, wondering how he is ever going to make progress on Draco’s shed if he keeps allowing himself to be distracted like this, but Sandrine is already looping her arm through his and propelling him along the path behind Narcissa. He supposes a cup of tea won’t do him any harm.  
  
They sit at the marble-topped table in comfortable silence, drinking tea from willow patterned cups and gazing around at the glittering lawns. Every now and then, Briana lets out a soft grunt or snuffle, and Narcissa murmurs gently to her, pale face coming so close to the piglet at some points that Harry thinks their noses must be touching. Harry sips his tea slowly, allowing the warmth to pool inside him and chase away the confusion and sadness that threatens to spill over.  
  
Draco appears to be taking his time, and with Narcissa occupied with her little charge, Sandrine chats to Harry about her work and her attempts to teach her pet rabbit to understand sign language. Grateful for the distraction, Harry listens, smiling at her stories and watching the graceful shapes she forms with her hands.  
  
“He can understand ‘sit’ now,” she says, laughing. “And ‘food’. I think it’s progress.”  
  
“I think so, too,” Harry agrees. “Did you ever think of a sign name for me?”  
  
“Yes!” Sandrine sets down her cup. “I think it should be like this... Harry,” she says, and she arranges her hands as though she is stacking building blocks, one on top of the other.  
  
Grinning, he copies her. “Harry the builder?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I like it.” Harry practises the movement, feeling Narcissa’s eyes on him and opting not to turn around and look at her. “Can you show me how to say ‘My name is Harry’?”  
  
“Of course,” Sandrine says, tucking a swathe of blue and black hair behind her ear. “First of all, you need to know that sign language doesn’t follow English exactly. So when I ask you ‘what’s your name?’ I’m actually signing ‘your name what?’”  
  
“Okay,” Harry says, draining his cup and settling down to concentrate. “Go on.”  
  
By the time Draco comes to join them, Harry and Sandrine are practising a basic conversation including questions about names, ages and occupations. Briana is snoring in Narcissa’s arms and making an impressive amount of noise for such a tiny creature. Harry finishes his slightly mangled attempt at finger-spelling his surname before he turns around to look at Draco, and when he does, something in his stomach leaps with approval to see him, clean, dry, and at least partially rested.  
  
“Dare I ask what’s going on?” he asks, helping himself to tea.  
  
“Briana is sleeping off her lunch and I am better at sign language than Sandrine’s rabbit,” Harry says.  
  
Draco smiles.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

  
**Tenth of December – A country pub**

  
  
On Thursday morning, Harry returns to his hastily-abandoned building site and resumes work on the frame of Draco’s shed. Ensuring the balance between structural integrity and the tricky teardrop shape of the building demands all of his skill and concentration, but both are frequently challenged by Draco, whose fractious journeys up and down the path only seem to increase throughout the morning. By lunchtime, his muttering and pacing is fading in and out of Harry’s attention every five or ten minutes, and when his distraction causes him to whack his thumbnail with his hammer, he loses his patience.  
  
Swearing loudly, he turns on Draco, who is wandering up and down the path with Briana in his arms.  
  
“What in the name of arse are you doing?” he demands.  
  
Draco stops dead. “What are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”  
  
“You’re driving me mad,” Harry snaps, tucking his throbbing thumb into his palm and gritting his teeth. “I can’t focus with you doing... that. I’m hitting myself with things.”  
  
Draco blinks. “I’m not sure how that’s my fault,” he says crossly and then sighs, pushing a frustrated exhalation into the cold air. “Alright. I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind, I suppose, and Briana doesn’t want to go to sleep.”  
  
Harry suppresses a smile. “Does she need to go to sleep?”  
  
Draco wrinkles his nose. “Strictly speaking, no, but she’ll get stronger much faster if she does.” He gazes down anxiously at the little pig and Harry feels something tug gently inside him at the sight.  
  
“Right,” he says suddenly, shaking himself. He sets down his hammer. “We’re going out for lunch.”  
  
“All of us?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow.  
  
“No. You and me. This place isn’t going to fall apart in a couple of hours, and your mother’s dying to look after Briana again, you know she is,” Harry says, wondering why some of those words seem so familiar and then realising with a jolt that he has heard them in many variations now from the likes of Ron, Hermione and his colleagues at Evans Amazing Living Spaces.  
  
For a moment, Draco looks horrified at the idea, and then he tilts his chin slightly, regarding Harry with an air of challenge.  
  
“Fine. I’ll talk to my mother and change my clothes, and then I’ll meet you at the front door.”  
  
“You don’t need to get changed,” Harry laughs. “We’re going to a pub, not the Ritz.”  
  
Draco gives him an odd look and stalks off down the path. After securing the site, Harry follows him and waits in the portico, wondering if he’s going completely mad. Working on a project for Draco is one thing, even if he has somehow managed to entangle himself with the entire Malfoy collective in the process; inviting him out for lunch, just the two of them, during daylight hours... well, it’s quite another, and Harry can’t help but feel it’s significant somehow.  
  
Unless, of course, he’s over-analysing the whole thing, which is entirely possible. Draco is his friend, he thinks—secretly overhead conversations notwithstanding—and there is nothing wrong with a nice pub lunch between friends, especially when one of them is obviously and understandably upset.  
  
“No, you cannot come,” Draco says sternly, just as a rabble of noise makes Harry turn.  
  
Harold, Chase and Peter are milling around Draco’s feet in various combinations, having crept onto the portico and apparently decided that they, too, have been invited on the outing.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry says, and Peter ruffles his pink feathers, peering up at him in the way only a duck can.  
  
“Where are we going, then?” Draco asks, and Harry holds out an arm, strangely pleased to see that while Draco has definitely tidied his hair, he has not changed his clothes.  
  
Together, they Apparate into a quiet lane and walk the short distance to the country pub where Harry had taken his first big client to discuss their project over lunch. These days, he tends to visit his customers in their homes, but he remembers this place for its remote setting and delicious food.  
  
“Here we are,” he says, pausing in the lane to appreciate the structure with a builder’s eye.  
  
The little pub crouches between two long rows of trees, made of warm, rough stone that glows in the winter sunlight. The lintels and doorways are sturdy and beautiful, and the two short gables form neat little peaks against the open sky. Above a pair of hanging baskets filled with holly and Christmas lights swings a large picture of a dog and the words: _The Greyhound Inn_.  
  
“It looks rather civilised,” Draco mumbles.  
  
“There’s no need to sound so surprised,” Harry says, leading the way inside.  
  
He pokes Draco into a corner seat next to a window and heads to the bar, where he procures two pints of local ale and a couple of menus.  
  
“I was going to get wine and then that seemed... weird,” he admits, passing Draco one of the pints and sitting opposite him.  
  
“I’m not really much of a fan anyway,” Draco says nonchalantly.  
  
Harry stares. “But we always drink wine at those functions. We talk about wine... well, we make stuff up about wine. I’m pretty sure you started it!”  
  
“Probably.” Draco shrugs and sips his pint. “It’s the only thing I can drink without worrying about saying something ridiculous. Yes, except for that last time,” he adds before Harry can get a word out. “I never said it was a foolproof system.”  
  
Harry smiles. “I’m not supposed to go to any more of those things,” he says carelessly. “At least not for a while.”  
  
“Why not?” Draco’s eyes are sharp with curiosity, and for a split second Harry wishes he could have the words back, but then he wonders.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, if he offers something of himself, Draco will do the same. If he wants answers, he ought to lead by example, however awkward it might make him feel. He takes a deep breath.  
  
“I haven’t been to work since the first of December because I made myself so anxious that I fainted in my back garden and hit my head and Hermione made me take some time off,” he says in a rush.  
  
Draco’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”  
  
Harry wraps his hands around his cold glass. “Yep.”  
  
“Then what the bloody hell are you doing putting up a shed for me?” he demands.  
  
“Oh, god, Draco... really?” Harry sighs. “Honestly? Because you asked me to... or rather, you dared me to, and as per usual, I couldn’t back down from a challenge. Also because... and I don’t really know how to explain this... being at your place actually makes me feel calmer.”  
  
Draco stares at him for so long that he has to look away. He lets his eyes run vaguely over the menu, half-wondering about roast pork belly and homemade chicken kiev with green beans. The smells coming out of the kitchen are warm and savoury and his stomach growls in spite of his discomfiture.  
  
“You know, I wondered,” Draco says at last. “I didn’t imagine you working like this—one project at a time. I thought you’d be dashing all over the country and still dropping into your office ten times a day.”  
  
Harry glances at him, surprised to see his eyebrows knitted in what seems like concern.  
  
“Well, yeah. Usually. And then I got kicked out of my office, too.”  
  
“Tell me,” Draco says, and there’s something in his voice that makes the back of Harry’s neck prickle.  
  
“Let’s order first,” he suggests, and then there is silence as they both pick up their menus and study them carefully.  
  
When the food order has been placed, Harry steels himself and tells Draco everything. At first, he intends to tell him only what he absolutely needs to know—about his decision to take some time and the mutiny of his staff—but Draco listens quietly to every word he says, sipping his pint and offering the occasional word or two, and the whole thing is so compelling that Harry can’t stop the entire mess spilling out of his mouth.  
  
He tells Draco about the long hours and the constant requests for appearances and speeches and fuck-knows-what else, about the sleepless nights and the headaches and the muscle tremors, the anxious advice of his friends and family members and the feeling of panic that has been following him around for longer than he cares to remember.  
  
“Of course, now I’m getting older, I think it’s been getting worse,” he says, cutting into a roast potato and blowing on it distractedly. “I keep worrying that I’m wasting my life, and I’ve always worried about that... only now I’m not sure what any of it means.”  
  
“Please tell me that you haven’t been worrying about turning thirty,” Draco says. “I know I like to joke about it, but it’s absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. It’s just a number, not even a very big one, and as you’re fond of reminding me, I’m going to get there before you do.”  
  
Harry smiles at him and shakes his head. “It isn’t about being thirty. It is a little bit about... what it means, I suppose. What I should have achieved in my life and what I haven’t.”  
  
“You’re not serious,” Draco says, setting down his knife and fork and staring at Harry. “You are worried that you haven’t achieved enough in your life so far? You?”  
  
“Don’t you even think about—” Harry begins, but Draco is already there.  
  
“There’s only the trivial business of saving the wizarding world. Twice.”  
  
“I don’t mean stuff like that,” Harry mutters.  
  
“Oh, no, of course. That stuff doesn’t count at all.” Draco sighs and eats his peas, gazing at Harry in bewilderment the entire time.  
  
“It’s not that it doesn’t _count_ ,” Harry says at last. “It’s just that... all that was something I had to do. I’m glad I did it, obviously, but I don’t want that to be the only thing anyone remembers me for.”  
  
“You have your own company,” Draco points out. “I’m sure my shed is going to be very nice. Eventually.”  
  
Harry ignores the jab and shrugs. “Okay. But what about everything else? I mean... what’s the stuff that really matters? I don’t know any more. I’m trying to be a good uncle to Rose because—well, because I love her, obviously—but also because I might not have any kids of my own and I need someone to... remember me.”  
  
“I always imagined you with children,” Draco says quietly. “It didn’t occur to me that you might not want any.”  
  
“Draco, it’s not that I don’t want any,” Harry says, feeling a twinge of sadness and hiding it in his glass. “It’s just that I’m on my own, I’m not exactly brilliant with relationships and it’s not as though I might just end up with a child by accident because...”  
  
“Because you’re gay?” Draco snorts. “Please. There are plenty of options out there, believe me, I’ve looked. And you have years to think about all of that. If you want to be a father one day, you can make it happen, and I’m sure you’ll be excellent at it.”  
  
Harry lets out his breath in a surprised little huff, unable to decide what he is more startled by—the compliment or the easy confirmation of his long-held suspicions about Draco’s sexuality. In the end, he gathers his manners and simply says, “Thank you.”  
  
They finish their food in silence. When Harry returns from the bar with a second pint for each of them, Draco is sitting with his arms folded on the table and his face set.  
  
“Go on, then,” Harry says, sinking into his chair and waiting.  
  
“Do you want to feel better?” Draco asks. “Because I can tell you about something truly pathetic.”  
  
“Go on, then,” Harry repeats, amused.  
  
“Me,” Draco says. “It’s me. I, too, am on the wrong side of my twenty-ninth birthday, but I also live with my mother, haven’t had a proper boyfriend since I was nineteen, and my only friend in the world is a mad deaf vet who thinks I have intimacy issues.”  
  
“Do you?” Harry asks, not expecting a response, and then: “Only friend in the world? What am I, chopped liver?”  
  
Draco frowns. “What? No... I mean that she... she’s my normal friend. You... at least, until recently, you were...” He trails into silence, flushing and directing a pointless glare at his drink.  
  
Harry grins. He has never seen Draco so flustered before and it’s absolutely wonderful.  
  
“I’m what?” he asks gleefully.  
  
Draco’s glare rises to fix on him. “Yes,” he says at last. “You are my friend, but you have to admit that none of this has come about in an ordinary fashion.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll give you that,” Harry says.  
  
He leans back in his chair and allows himself to relax. Full of food and good beer and gently warmed by the sunlight that streams in through the nearby window, he feels contented. Draco is his friend, and even the memory of his conversation with Sandrine feels too far away to reach him right now. In fact, he can almost convince himself that he misheard the whole thing. Perhaps even imagined it.  
  
He is just wondering if he has room for dessert when Draco speaks again. This time, his voice is hard and Harry’s eyes snap to him at once.  
  
“It’s been happening for almost a year. The first time, a deer went missing. Sandrine and I searched the woods—they’re all magically tagged, you know—but there was no sign of it. Then we started to find the traps. Sometimes an animal would just vanish and other times we’d find one dying.”  
  
Harry’s heart lurches. “Poachers?” he guesses.  
  
Draco nods. “We think so. The wood backs onto Muggle-owned land but it’s warded to the teeth, not to mention ringed with Muggle-repelling charms. There’s no magic in the traps—they’re just metal, and completely barbaric.”  
  
“How do you think they’re getting in and out?” Harry asks, unsure he really wants to know but determined to keep the conversation going now that Draco has confided in him.  
  
“We don’t know. I check the woods for traps every night—more often if I can. Sandrine and I invented a spell to detect them.” Draco shakes his head. “But, as you’ve seen, it isn’t always enough.”  
  
“I’m not surprised you didn’t want me to go in there without you,” Harry says.  
  
“No one goes in there except Harold and his friends. They’re too light to set off the traps. Apparently our Muggle friend is only interested in the bigger animals,” Draco says with a grimace.  
  
“I’m really sorry, Draco,” Harry sighs. “Is there no way of finding out who’s doing it?”  
  
“We haven’t given up. We haven’t had a sniff of them yet, either.”  
  
 _A sniff_ , Harry thinks, something pricking in the back of his head. “Couldn’t you... this probably sounds daft, but couldn’t you let one of the hogglers have a sniff of a trap and then see where they go? You said they could track anything if they had the scent.”  
  
Draco’s mouth flickers weakly at one corner. “I doubt even a hoggler could get a scent of the person who placed the traps. Besides, I don’t want to put them at risk or take them out of the wood.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry says. He leans back in his chair and sips at his beer. “You’re so good with them, you know... it’s still a bit strange when I think about it.”  
  
“Sometimes it’s better not to,” Draco says and then gazes evenly at Harry as though assessing him for soundness. “The truth is, I did it for my mother.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry says, surprised by the offer of further confidences.  
  
“That wood helped me to survive a very difficult time,” Draco says, granting Harry a significant look that sends a shiver over his skin.  
  
“Your... house guest,” he says, and Draco’s mouth twists in a wry ghost of a smile.  
  
“Indeed. The nights were the worst. I couldn’t breathe in there with them, so I used to sneak out and sit among the trees until I could hear my own voice in my head and no one else’s. I loved listening to the owls and the leaves rustling, and when I went back to the house I could smell the outdoors on my robes and it calmed me.”  
  
“It has that effect on me, too,” Harry admits, closing his eyes for a moment and almost feeling the dark, cool press of the trees all around him.  
  
“Well, my mother felt the same way,” Draco says. “After the war, it was like she was paralysed by fear. She couldn’t leave the house at all back then, so I tried to bring the woods to her. She’s always loved animals but my father hated them, so when he was gone, I started finding injured birds and foxes and whatnot, and trying to make them better. Then I met Sandrine and the whole thing sort of...” He mimes an explosion with his hands. “... took off.”  
  
“How did you keep it a secret all this time?” Harry asks.  
  
“How or why?” Draco asks shrewdly, picking a leftover chip from his plate and eating it.  
  
“Both, I suppose,” Harry admits. “You could make a fortune letting people wander around. I’m not saying that you need it, but it would help you with their upkeep.”  
  
Draco shrugs. “I don’t want people wandering around. I want my mother to feel safe to come outside any time she wants to. As for how, you’d be surprised how little interest anyone has in my family these days. It hasn’t been difficult.”  
  
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Harry asks with a smile.  
  
“You have always been the exception to every rule,” Draco says. “And, as it happens, we are about to have our first visit in a couple of days’ time. I promised Professor Grubbly-Plank that she could bring some first-years to look around at our magical creatures. I’ve told her it’s a one-off, but I have the feeling she’s going to insist on doing it every year.”  
  
“Has something happened to Hagrid?” Harry asks, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he hasn’t visited Hogwarts since some time the previous year.  
  
“No, he’s still teaching Care of Magical Creatures. Wilhelmina takes the first years on all sorts of outings for different subjects,” Draco says. “Apparently she took them to an airport last month for Muggle Studies.”  
  
“I’m impressed,” Harry says, recalling his own Muggle Studies lessons and their total lack of excitement or outings. “When’s this, then?”  
  
“Saturday,” Draco says. “It’s their last week of term before the holidays.”  
  
“And when exactly do you get a holiday?” Harry asks, and he suspects that he absolutely deserves the pointed look Draco gives him.  
  
“Those animals are a big responsibility,” Draco says. “Speaking of which, we should get back before Harold gets himself stuck in a hedge and can’t get out. Don’t look like that—it’s happened before.”  
  
“I can believe it,” Harry says, rising when Draco does and heading to the bar to pay. “And I think you need a break, too.”  
  
Draco follows him, watching the transaction with interest and peering at the rows of gleaming optics behind the barman.  
  
“Maybe we should make a list,” he says suddenly.  
  
“A list of what?” Harry asks, walking out into the bright, crisp afternoon.  
  
“Of functions. They’re boring without you and we both go to far too many of them anyway,” Draco says. “We should make a list and cross off all the ones that aren’t very good.”  
  
“Should we?” Harry asks, mouth twitching into a smile. The ‘we’ is rather heartening, all things considered, and he stores it away for the next time he decides that Draco doesn’t want him around.  
  
“Hmm?” Draco mumbles, turning around from his examination of a large striped spider in a web on the window of the pub.  
  
“Never mind. Let’s make a list.”  



	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

  
**Eleventh of December – Peacock feather in the snow**

  
  
In the early hours of Friday morning, Harry wakes shivering. Despite his best attempts to curl into a ball and ignore the problem, in the end, he has to stumble around his icy bedroom and seek out an extra blanket to block out the chill. When he opens his eyes again, the clock on his bedside reads twenty-five past eight and the room is filled with a ghostly white light.  
  
Deciding it might not be prudent to start messing around with warming charms when he is still half asleep, Harry elects to wrap his blankets around his body and drag himself over to the window in an effort to conserve the toasty warmth he has built up in the night. When he looks out over Grimmauld Place, he can’t help the delighted grin that tugs at his lips. He has always loved snow, and the entire street is now covered in it, every surface gleaming and glittering in the first light of the morning.  
  
He stands there, eyes flitting over the perfect calm below, until the chill begins to creep under his blanket cloak and he is forced to make a dash for the shower. He takes his coffee out into the back garden, shooting a wary glance at the slippery stones and wondering just how beautiful the Manor grounds will look under a carpet of snow. The covering is rather light in the middle of London, but Harry imagines that rural Wiltshire will be a different story.  
  
He is not disappointed. Grinning, he crunches through the snow that coats the drive, kicking up powder with the bright red wellington boots he bought on impulse in Diagon Alley and hasn’t so far dared to wear. He probably looks ridiculous but he couldn’t give a flying fuck; his face is numb and his fingers are half frozen and the whole place looks like something out of a Christmas card.  
  
Behind the house, he almost walks straight into Draco, who is emerging from the clinic with an armful of blankets.  
  
“I thought you might not come,” he says, and Harry somehow knows that not only is he surprised, he is also pleased, and a comfortable feeling of warmth settles in his stomach.  
  
It’s just possible that after all this time he is actually learning to read Draco, and the knowledge is immensely satisfying. Rolling his eyes, Harry takes half of the blankets and follows Draco to the recovery area.  
  
“I’m not frightened of a bit of snow, you know.”  
  
“I didn’t think you were. I thought you might be taking Rose sledging or extreme cross-country skiing or something,” Draco says, opening the first door and tucking an extra blanket around Melissa and her piglets.  
  
“You’re hilarious. She’s at school, anyway,” Harry says.  
  
“I didn’t think she was old enough for that,” Draco mutters, searching for his wand and then casting a glowing charm around the family of hogglers.  
  
Harry frowns. “But you thought she was old enough for skiing?”  
  
Draco glances over his shoulder, pale eyes glinting. “That was a joke. At your expense. You know, because of all the excitement she needs in her life.”  
  
Affronted, Harry says nothing, but then Draco grants him one of his small, rare smiles and he can’t help smiling back.  
  
“Bugger off.”  
  
“Not possible,” Draco says, moving to the next pen along. “Unlike some people, I have work to do.”  
  
“I have work to do,” Harry says, thinking of his neglected building site with very little enthusiasm. “Unless you need some help?”  
  
Draco smiles for the second time in minutes and that must be some sort of record.  
  
“My mother has Briana down in the kitchen. Apparently, the cats are very confused.” He tucks a bright red blanket around a large, sleeping rabbit and casts another softly glowing charm. “Everyone out here is rather subject to the elements and I need to make sure they’re warm enough.”  
  
“So that was a yes? To help?”  
  
Draco says nothing, but Harry is soon being handed items to hold, instructed to pass this and clean that and close the fucking door before the fucking badgers get out.  
  
“Here, take this snake and hold it behind its head,” Draco says.  
  
“Which head?” Harry asks, attempting to support the surprisingly heavy creature and restrain it at the same time.  
  
“Like this,” Draco says, stepping closer and moving Harry’s hand into position with practised ease.  
  
His fingers are cold against Harry’s skin and he shivers. “Got it,” he says, and the words feel rough and scratchy in his throat.  
  
When all of the animals in the recovery pens have been examined and protected against the cold with blankets and spells, Harry and Draco walk down the drive to check on the peacocks. They are followed by Harold, who stops every few feet to dash onto the lawn, sink into the snow and struggle back out again, shaking ice crystals from his striking plumage. He is pursued with dedication by Chase, who is so light that he seems to float over the glistening white surface, and Peter, who quacks loudly and upends himself in the snow at regular intervals.  
  
Harry smiles and shakes his head as the whole process starts over again and the duck plunges after his friends, waggling his pink backside in obvious delight. The peacocks, too, seem to be enjoying the change in weather, strutting across the snow and sweeping their elaborate tail feathers in graceful arcs. Draco counts them under his breath, plunging out into the snow to check behind bushes for stragglers while Harry waits on the path and pulls the clean air deep into his lungs.  
  
One of the peacocks shrieks and flaps, setting up a fuss for no apparent reason and streaking past Harry to the other side of the drive where it settles, fancy crest bobbing gently, and fixes him with little black eyes. An enormous feather, blue-green and fringed and beautiful, lies in the snow at Harry’s feet, lost in the drama of the moment. He picks it up and examines it, then glances at the bird.  
  
“I’m going to have this, okay?”  
  
The peacock ignores him and begins to peck idly at the snow.  
  
“Who are you talking to?” Draco asks, crunching back onto the path.  
  
“No one,” Harry says, tucking the feather into his coat. He turns to Draco, who is regarding him with clear amusement. He is breathing hard and his pale skin is pink with cold. “Have you been running?”  
  
“Only a little bit,” Draco says, starting back towards the house. “Peacocks can be a bit... they can be wankers, to be honest.”  
  
When Harry glances at him, his face is so earnest that it hurts him a little bit. He takes a deep breath, frowning and pushing the feeling away.  
  
“So, how do you know Grubbly-Plank, anyway?” he asks. “How do you know her now, I mean?”  
  
“She’s a friend of Sandrine’s,” Draco says. “Apparently they belong to the same baking club.”  
  
Harry stops short and lets out a yelp as a pile of pheasant, Puffskein and duck slams into the backs of his legs. After a moment, the little buggers untangle themselves and shoot off up the drive.  
  
“Sandrine bakes?” he frowns and starts walking again. “Grubbly-Plank bakes?”  
  
“Apparently,” Draco says. “Wilhelmina’s croquembouche is the stuff of legend.”  
  
“Her what now?” Harry asks, bewildered.  
  
Draco laughs. “It’s a dessert. Like a big pile of profiteroles with all sorts of wonderful stuff all over it.”  
  
“Have you tried it? Hers?”  
  
“Once,” Draco says with a wistful sigh. “Wilhelmina is a woman of many talents. It’ll be nice to see her tomorrow.”  
  
“Sounds like another friend,” Harry says innocently. “I thought you only had one.”  
  
“Kindly fuck off,” Draco says. He pushes his hands into his coat pockets. “I like your wellingtons.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
“He’s right, you know,” Harry says, resting his socked feet on a spare kitchen chair and twisting his peacock feather between his finger and thumb. “It is a big responsibility. So much extra work to do, just because of a little bit of snow. And then we’ve got everyone coming tomorrow, so everything has to be perfect...”  
  
He pauses to drink his tea and Hermione scribbles away in her little book. She has barely stopped since the four of them finished dinner, and now that Ron and Rose are tidying up around them, she is writing like a demon, quill flying over the paper as Harry talks about his day. He has no idea what she is writing in there and he’s not sure he wants to know. The important thing is, she has finished with her scans and the results are apparently good enough that she does not feel the need to tell him off at all. She has, however, felt the need to cook, and no amount of tea seems able to remove the taste of burned cabbage from Harry’s mouth.  
  
He grimaces and gulps the rest of his drink as the flavour attempts to reassert itself.  
  
“We?” Hermione asks, looking up at last.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You said ‘we’ve got everyone coming tomorrow’. Did you know that?”  
  
Harry looks down at the feather, face heating. “Oh... well, you know... I feel sort of involved with the place. I’m there so much with the shed and everything.”  
  
“How’s that going?” Hermione asks, and Harry immediately regrets mentioning it.  
  
It isn’t. Going, that is. The shed is very much exactly how he left it a good thirty-six hours ago, and he doubts there’s going to be any more progress on it in the next day or two either.  
  
“It’s coming on,” Harry lies, and then, “Slowly. It’s a little bit on hold. Just for now.”  
  
Hermione’s eyes seem to glow with amusement. “Oh?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry says, “and I hate it when you do that.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything,” she insists, and there is a small sound of incredulity from the other side of the kitchen.  
  
“Yes, you are. You’re looking at me like you know something I don’t know and it’s maddening,” Harry says, spinning the stem of the feather so violently that it flies out of his hand and over his head.  
  
He sighs, heavy with the weight of the thing that he doesn’t know.  
  
Hermione just smiles at him and turns back to her book.  
  
“Wow, it’s beautiful,” Rose says, appearing at the table with the feather in her hand. “Where did you find it, Uncle Harry?”  
  
“A friend of mine has a lot of peacocks,” he says, and her eyes go large and round. “Sometimes the feathers fall out when they don’t need them any more. You can have that one if you like.”  
  
“Really?” She beams.  
  
“What do you say?” Hermione prompts without looking up.  
  
“Thank you,” Rose says, holding the feather with such care as though a stiff draught might shatter it. “My teacher—”  
  
“Mrs Boggart?” Harry interrupts.  
  
“Mrs Goddard,” Rose corrects, giggling. “She told us to bring blue things for our showing table. Now I can take this!”  
  
“What, you don’t want to take that doughnut I found in the bottom of the bread bin?” Ron asks. “That was blue.”  
  
“No, Daddy,” Rose says seriously. “This is better. Do you think it’s alright that it’s not just blue, it’s blue and other colours as well?”  
  
“Definitely,” Hermione says, putting her book away and smiling at her daughter.  
  
Rose hugs Harry and he hugs her back tightly.  
  
“So... you, Malfoy, and thirty-odd first years,” Ron says, drying his hands on a checked tea towel and grinning. “That’s going to be interesting.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Twelfth of December – Misty valley sunrise**  
  
  
  
When Harry Apparates out of his kitchen with a flask of hot coffee tucked under one arm, the sun is only just beginning to glimmer on the horizon. The Manor grounds are shrouded in darkness, but he walks slowly up the driveway, breathing in the cool, soft air, and by the time he reaches the house, the sky is at last beginning to lighten. He stops, leaning against the cold stone, and looks out over the sprawl of lawns and fields, only to find that the whole lot has been swallowed up in a sea of fog.  
  
The outlines of the nearest trees are still visible but everything else seems to have disappeared completely and Harry has the oddest sensation of being cut off from the rest of the world. Around his feet, the snow remains in glimmering white patches and he kicks at them with his bright red boots, suddenly feeling the need to anchor himself to the ground. The sensation is an unsettling one, but he has to admit that the sight of the new sunlight filtering through the mist is quite beautiful.  
  
The grounds are almost completely silent, and Harry turns in a slow circle, searching for a light or flicker of movement that will tell him that he’s not the only one awake in this place. Finding nothing, he shivers and pours himself a cup of steaming black coffee from his flask. He’s sure he remembers telling Draco he’d get here early to help with the preparations for the Hogwarts visit, but then he also thinks he remembers Draco fussing over Briana and not really paying attention to him.  
  
It’s not as though he’s been asked to help, of course. It’s just... one of those things that doesn’t really require discussion. He’s part of this now, whatever this is, and if Draco has forgotten him, he’s going to regret it. Harry isn’t above putting an itching potion in his next cup of tea, that’s for sure.  
  
“Harry? Is that you?”  
  
Relieved, Harry turns in the direction of the voice but sees nothing beyond the wall of fog.  
  
“Yeah,” he calls back, and after a moment, a warm yellow light seems to bob out of the gloom of its own accord.  
  
Finally, Draco appears, holding a lantern aloft and illuminating the area immediately around him in a soft, flickering glow.  
  
“Coffee?” he says hopefully, and Harry pours a fresh cup for him, which he takes with a grateful sigh. “This is going to be interesting, isn’t it?” he adds, unwittingly echoing Ron’s assessment of the situation.  
  
Harry peers back out into the grounds, where the blunt oranges and pinks of the sunrise are melting into the endless fog.  
  
“Roll up, roll up, and see the mysterious creatures of Malfoy Manor,” he intones, waving his flask through the air. “Witness the invisible beasts of the Wiltshire countryside... if you dare.”  
  
Draco lets out a sound that is half laugh and half groan. “It’s a disaster, isn’t it? No one’s going to be able to see a thing.”  
  
Harry looks at his irritable face in the lamplight and smiles. “I’m joking, it’ll be fine. We just need some lights. A lot of lights.”  
  
“Lights?” Draco repeats, eyebrows knitted, and then he brightens. “We have lights. Come on!”  
  
With that, he turns and hurries back into the fog. Harry hastens to follow, keeping his eye on the bobbing lantern and skidding every few steps on the icy flagstones. When Draco heads into the clinic, Harry is a little confused, but he steps inside, casting a quick charm to light the dark interior. Sandrine’s domain is gleaming with cleanliness, organised to within an inch of its life, and almost creepy without its usual vibrant occupant. The rows of instruments and bottles glitter in the harsh light from Harry’s spell and the cold, sterile air sends a shiver over his skin.  
  
“Aha,” Draco mutters, backing out of a closet and turning to Harry with a huge box and a triumphant expression.  
  
“Lights?” Harry asks uncertainly.  
  
“Lights,” Draco says. “I don’t usually put them up for another few days, but under the circumstances... we can stick them up in the recovery area and around the trees so that no one bumps into anything. What do you think?”  
  
Harry nods, amused when Draco opens the box and pulls out string after string of multicoloured Christmas lights. Within seconds, he has been handed his own bundle of lights and is walking back out into the fog. Together, they unravel the strings and tack them into place until each individual kennel doorway is illuminated in bright points of red, green, blue and yellow. Then, while Draco works through his usual checks on the sleeping animals, Harry conjures balls of light like the ones in Narcissa’s kitchen to float gently inside each pen and all along the pathway to the house. After pausing for another cup of coffee from Harry’s flask, they wrap the remaining strands of lights around the largest tree trunks, spell the ice from the flagstones and discuss the plan for the day.  
  
The whole operation seems wonderfully efficient, so much so that Harry can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about the fact that he is, once again, neglecting the shed. When Sandrine arrives just before ten o’clock, Harry greets her with oil lantern held aloft and she hurries towards him, wrapping her red woollen coat around herself and shivering.  
  
“Hi, Harry,” she says, signing his name with a smile and then turning to Draco. “We might have a problem.”  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“I know you wanted me to help you show the kids around, and I want to, but I can hardly see six inches in front of my face in this,” she says, indicating the fog. “If I can’t read their lips, I can’t talk to them.”  
  
Harry smiles, relieved, and turns back to his task of picking sticky green burrs out of Chase’s fur.  
  
“We did think about that,” Draco says, “and if you’re game, we thought you could be in charge of Briana instead. If we set you both up with some warming charms, you could have a few of them at a time to look at her, and then they could get close enough for you to lipread.”  
  
Sandrine beams. “Absolutely. Is she with your mother?”  
  
Draco nods. Sandrine stalks off on her brilliantly impractical shoes to retrieve the little pig, and by the time she comes back, Grubbly-Plank’s Alsatian-shaped Patronus is leaping out of the fog to announce the group’s arrival.  
  
“How did they get here, do you think?” Harry asks, standing at the top of the drive and watching the children fade slowly out of the fog.  
  
“Portkeys, I imagine,” Draco says, regarding the visitors with clear apprehension. “There’s just so many of them.”  
  
Harry nods and hangs on tightly to his lantern. Draco’s nervousness is contagious, and it doesn’t seem to matter that he has nothing to be nervous about.  
  
“Hello, Draco,” Grubbly-Plank calls, striding towards him and shaking his hand firmly. “Sandrine.” She beams, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Harry Potter, what a lovely surprise.”  
  
“I told you he would be here, Wilhelmina,” Draco says, eyes still fixed on the children, who seem to be surrounding them in a watchful circle.  
  
“Oh, behave yourself,” she says good-naturedly, and Draco’s eyebrow flickers.  
  
Amused, Harry shakes her hand. “I’ve been hearing all about your trips out with the first-years,” he says. “I think they’re a brilliant idea.”  
  
Grubbly-Plank beams. “Minerva’s idea, really... well, a bit of a collaboration, I suppose. We’re trying to get all the kids on a level playing field, you see—some of them have no knowledge of the wizarding world, so we take them all over the place and show them all their options. Then, on the other side, we do Muggle stuff so that the others don’t miss out, either.”  
  
“Like the airport?” Harry asks, impressed with the whole concept.  
  
“We had a great time at the airport, didn’t we?” she says, looking around at the children, and a ripple of agreement passes around the group.  
  
“We saw a plane take off and a plane land and the biggest Toblerone in the world,” someone says, and Harry doesn’t need to squint through the fog to recognise the owner of the voice.  
  
“I could eat that whole Toblerone,” says someone else, and the first speaker laughs.  
  
“No, you couldn’t, Andrina, it was _massive_. Hi, Uncle Harry!”  
  
“Hi, Teddy,” Harry laughs, delighted when his godson steps out of the circle and runs to give him a hug.  
  
He hugs Teddy back, admiring his glossy black hair. He suspects he should enjoy the affection while he can, because while he cannot really imagine Teddy turning into a difficult, moody sort of teenager, there will probably come a point when he will be too embarrassed to hug his Uncle Harry in front of all his school friends.  
  
“Anyone else?” he jokes when Teddy releases him and runs back to the group.  
  
To his surprise, the children dissolve into giggles at this suggestion, and when he looks at Draco, he sees that his mouth is tugging rebelliously upwards at one corner.  
  
“Okay,” Grubbly-Plank calls, clapping her gloved hands together and catching the attention of her charges. “We talked about the rules before we set off, but let’s go through them one more time. Number one – respect nature at all times. Number two...”  
  
Harry waits quietly while the rules are reinforced and attempts to contain Harold between his booted feet in order to prevent him dashing into the group of children and stealing their attention away from their teacher. Unhappy to be held back in this manner, Harold lets out a vibrating cry and struggles against his rubbery prison. When Grubbly-Plank finally finishes talking, Harry lets him go and he immediately bolts for the children, crashes into Teddy’s leg and falls over.  
  
It takes a good two or three minutes to persuade the first-years to stop fretting over Harold and instead follow Draco along the path, but finally, they are moving, proceeding carefully after the bobbing lantern with Grubbly-Plank and Sandrine at the rear, all holding their arms out for balance in the blank ocean of fog. In the distance, a bird cries, and the sound reverberates eerily.  
  
“Is this a ghost walk?” asks a small boy, sounding rather worried.  
  
“Only if you misbehave,” Draco mutters under his breath, and beside him, Harry snorts.  
  
“Ghosts don’t walk,” says a girl with a loud voice that reminds Harry strikingly of an eleven-year-old Hermione. “They _glide_.”  
  
“Zombies walk,” offers someone else. “There could be zombies.”  
  
“There are no such things as zombies, Wilbur,” the girl says wearily.  
  
“You don’t know everything,” Wilbur mutters, but there is no chance for the girl to respond because they have reached the recovery area and all eyes are drawn to the network of brightly-coloured lights and the pens containing a strange mixture of magical and non-magical animals.  
  
“Groups, please,” Grubbly-Plank says, and Harry watches with interest as the children split themselves into sets of seven without the slightest bit of fuss.  
  
Sandrine settles herself on a sturdy old armchair on the edge of the courtyard, loops a glimmering warming charm around herself and Briana, and invites the first group to gather round and meet the little pig. They creep forward and nod seriously when Sandrine explains that they can ask any question they like as long as they go one at a time and don’t turn away from her. One by one, the children stretch out eager hands to stroke Briana’s bristly coat, and for a moment, Harry can’t quite take his eyes away from them.  
  
“Excuse me,” someone says from somewhere near his waist, and he looks down to see that one of the groups has gathered around him.  
  
He glances around, finding one with Draco, another with Grubbly-Plank and another attempting to sketch pictures of Harold and his friends.  
  
“Right,” he says, hoping to sound more confident than he feels. “Let’s start here, shall we? Okay, first of all, has anyone spotted what’s a bit unusual about this snake?”  
  
The children press themselves to the mesh, gasping when the snake turns its heads to look at them and flicks both forked tongues with interest. Feeling himself relaxing just a fraction, Harry turns to look at Draco, who has chosen that moment to look over at him. Through the thick fog, he is barely more than a dark outline, but Harry can feel those eyes on him and his heart stutters.  
  
With some effort, he answers the children’s questions about the snake as best he can and then gently moves them onto the next kennel.  
  
It’s almost midday by the time each group has seen—and, where possible, interacted with—each animal in the recovery area, and Grubbly-Plank calls for a break. When Harry heads down to the kitchen to make hot drinks for everyone, he is surprised to see Narcissa pouring rich hot chocolate into a forest of little cups.  
  
“I thought you might like something to warm you up,” she says, pushing a curious cat away from one of the steaming cups. “It’s rather cold out there for children.”  
  
“Thank you,” he manages, taking the tray when she holds it out and carrying it carefully back up the stairs.  
  
Once outside, he passes the cups into eager hands, and when he finds he still has several left, he walks back to the recovery area where he finds three small girls gathered around the enclosure containing the trout.  
  
“Look at his little face,” one of them murmurs, clearly quite enamoured with the grouchy fish, and the others nod and gaze at the trout, laughing when he flicks his tail and turns in a slow circle.  
  
“Come on,” Harry says, and they all turn to look at him guiltily. “He’s not going anywhere. Come and drink this so you won’t be too cold when we walk through the snow.”  
  
The girls take their cups and follow him, and when everyone has warmed their hands and bellies, they stride off down the drive with Draco and his lantern in the lead. Under the instruction of Grubby-Plank, they draw pictures, make notes, and collect fallen leaves and fir cones to press into books and pockets. They trudge through the snow to stand under a cluster of oak trees where Draco has hung bird feeders of every size and shape, and Harry is astonished when every single one of them whips out a little card and starts to tick the picture of each tiny bird they see.  
  
“It’s all so organised,” he says to Draco, watching the flickering yellow of his lantern moving across the snow as they walk slowly to the peacocks’ favourite stomping ground.  
  
“It was hardly going to be a shambles with Wilhelmina in charge,” Draco says. He turns briefly to look over his shoulder at the chattering river of children behind him. “Still, even I’m surprised that they’re all so well-behaved.”  
  
“We certainly weren’t,” Harry mutters, and Draco laughs.  
  
“No, we were not. And look who’s here.”  
  
Harry looks, not at all surprised to see Harold streaking along the snow beside them. He is still sinking every now and then but each time he struggles free and manages to keep up with them. Harry can’t see Chase and Peter yet, but he doubts they are too far behind.  
  
“Maybe he can smell whatever it is you’ve got for the peacocks,” he suggests.  
  
Draco looks at the large paper bag in his hand and then at Harold, who looks right back and makes an excitable little noise.  
  
“There is no way he’s hungry. He never stops eating.”  
  
“Well, some people... and pheasants... are just bottomless pits,” Harry says, and he definitely isn’t thinking of Ron.  
  
“Oh, look,” whispers a girl at the front of the group.  
  
Harry looks and sees that the peacocks have finally come into view. Through the ghostly fog, they are only visible as blue-green blobs against the snow, but they are accustomed enough to people that they are unconcerned by the children’s quiet steps, and soon they are able to creep close enough to examine the birds properly.  
  
“In the wild, peacocks eat berries and seeds and insects,” Draco says, holding his lantern aloft and allowing the children to gather around him. “These ones are domesticated, so they have a slightly different diet. They still like to eat all of those things, but in the winter they also eat this.”  
  
The children lean in to look as Draco holds out the bag of food. Several of them make a note.  
  
“What’s in it?” asks the girl with the loud voice.  
  
“All sorts, but mainly a mixture of grains to help them keep their weight when there’s not much else to eat,” Draco says. “Would anyone like to feed them?”  
  
“I will,” Teddy says, and Harry smiles at him.  
  
Carefully, he takes a small handful of the food and scatters it over the frozen ground. The effect is immediate—the peacocks abandon their desultory pecking and flock around Teddy, all their usual haughtiness forgotten. Harry isn’t surprised when Harold also makes a dash for the food, but he is surprised when one of the boys takes a step towards him and tries to shoo him away.  
  
Draco, who is bending to give a handful of food to the girl with the loud voice, doesn’t seem to have noticed, but Harry is incensed. The boy isn’t actually hurting, or even touching Harold, but the look of disgust is clear on his face as he leans down and attempts to frighten him away from the food.  
  
“Get away,” he mutters. “Horrible thing, go on, get away!”  
  
“Matthias, what are you doing?” Grubbly-Plank demands, striding over and pulling the boy away from Harold by his coat sleeve. “What was rule number one?”  
  
“Respect nature at all times,” Matthias says, face flushed and eyes bright. “I know! But that pheasant was trying to eat the peacocks’ food!”  
  
“That’s alright,” Draco says, stepping closer to Harold. “He’s allowed to do that.”  
  
Matthias’s face screws up and he looks at Harold with disdain. Harold pecks at the peacock food, whirring happily to himself. The peacocks seem spectacularly unconcerned.  
  
“Pheasants are stupid, common vermin,” he pronounces, and something in the way he says it reminds Harry uncomfortably of the little boy he had met in Madam Malkin’s almost two decades ago. He wonders if those are Matthias’s own words or if he is, in fact, spouting someone else’s opinion without even thinking about it.  
  
“That’s not true,” he says before he can stop himself. “Who told you that?”  
  
“My father,” Matthias says, folding his arms and glaring at Harold.  
  
Harry’s eyes slide to meet Draco’s and they exchange a weary glance.  
  
“Professor Grubbly-Plank, why don’t you take the rest of this food and make sure everyone gets some?” Draco says calmly, handing the bag to Wilhelmina. “Harry, give her your lantern. We’re going to have a bit of a chat with Matthias.”  
  
Grubbly-Plank complies with a nod, taking the food and the lantern and leading the rest of the group across the snow to where a second group of peacocks has gathered. Matthias scowls and refuses to look at either Draco or Harry.  
  
“This will only take a moment,” Draco says, and while there is a good amount of iron in his voice, there is also a kindness that surprises Harry. “Tell me what your father says.”  
  
Matthias wrinkles his nose. “Pheasants are horrible because they take food that more interesting birds could have, and they’re everywhere, so they’re not worth anything. They’re not good for anything except shooting.”  
  
“I would like you to look at that pheasant,” Draco says, adding with a sigh: “And that duck and that Puffskein if you like, they won’t be going anywhere until he does.”  
  
Peter shakes his tail and pecks experimentally at the peacock food, while Chase rolls through the snow and over Harry’s wellington boot.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I know about fathers and I suspect that if you have grown up with thoughts like that in your head, you have never looked at a pheasant properly before,” Draco says. “Look at Harold and tell me what you see.”  
  
Matthias says nothing but looks at Harold, who stops eating and peers up at him with the most deranged expression Harry has seen on him yet.  
  
“Fine. He’s... a pheasant. He has brown feathers with spots and long tail feathers with stripy bits,” he says, shrugging. “He has a white collar and a blue head and funny little eyes.”  
  
“Yes, he does have funny little eyes,” Draco agrees. “And he has all these beautiful patterns on his back, and he’s not very clever and he falls over ten times a day. But he’s not dirty or horrible and just because something is common doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have value. I’m not saying that you have to change your mind, but at least make it up yourself.”  
  
Matthias bites his lip and stares down at Harold. Harry can’t decide if he’s about to lash out with anger or burst into tears, so he prepares for both, wondering if he can step between Matthias and Harold if he decides to explode with rage.  
  
Harold makes a soft, vibrating sound and ambles forward to peck at Matthias’s shoelace. Harry holds his breath.  
  
“Do you think he likes me? After everything I said?” Matthias asks, still staring down at Harold.  
  
“He’s pretty forgiving,” Harry says. “I’ve kicked him by accident a couple of times and he seems to still like me.”  
  
Matthias flicks his eyes to Harry and then Draco and lets out a sigh.  
  
“What are you going to tell Grubbly-Plank?”  
  
“Professor Grubbly-Plank,” Harry corrects automatically and then mentally slaps himself.  
  
“I’ll tell her we had a chat, just like I said,” Draco says. “Perhaps if I do that, you can consider pheasants as a part of the nature you need to respect from now on?”  
  
Matthias nods and rubs at his red face. “Sorry, Harold,” he whispers, and all six of them make their way through the snow to join the others.  
  
Matthias runs ahead, no doubt wanting to put as much distance between himself and the two of them as possible. Harry and Draco walk more slowly, Harold, Chase and Peter scuttling around their feet.  
  
“You know, that was almost a parenting moment,” Draco says, holding up his lantern and peering through the fog to where Sandrine’s bright red coat is just about visible.  
  
Harry glances at him and smiles. “No child of ours would be so rude about pheasants.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Thirteenth of December - Leaves on a forest floor**  
  
  
  
“I think it went well, considering,” Draco says, examining a toast triangle before crunching into it.  
  
“I think it went brilliantly,” Harry agrees. “They’ll definitely want to come back. But here’s the thing.”  
  
Draco jumps as a cat leaps onto the table. “Does there have to be a thing?”  
  
“Yes. Because... okay, so yesterday they all had a good look around here.”  
  
“They did.”  
  
“And in a few days, they’re all going to go home and tell their parents about it.”  
  
“Probably,” Draco says. The cat attempts to lick butter from his fingers and he pushes her away.  
  
Harry frowns. “I thought it was all a secret.”  
  
“It is,” Draco says easily. “Just not a very good one.”  
  
Harry rubs at his face with both hands and lets out a frustrated sigh. “How, then, did you manage to convince me it was so secret that even telling Ron and Hermione was pushing it?”  
  
“Did I really?” Draco asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not my fault if I’m very persuasive.”  
  
“Oh, god,” Harry groans, shooting him a half-arsed glare. “So, is it a secret or not?”  
  
“It’s... discreet. I’m not going to gnash my teeth if anyone finds out we’re here, but neither am I interested in self-promotion.”  
  
Harry snorts. “Really?”  
  
Draco rolls his eyes. “Not any more.”  
  
“Sometimes I wonder if you know how confusing you are,” Harry says, finishing his tea and getting up from the table.  
  
“Where are you going? It’s still horrible out there. If you go out, I have go out,” Draco complains.  
  
“Why?” Harry asks, amused.  
  
“Because if you start doing something productive and I don’t, that will be very strange.”  
  
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t mean that as an insult,” Harry says, climbing the stairs with Draco tagging along behind him. “I’m going to get some work done on that shed you asked for. Remember that?”  
  
“Vaguely,” Draco says, smiling at his mother as they pass her in the entrance hall with most of her cats trailing behind her. “Medici is in the kitchen, if you were wondering. Probably licking butter from our plates by now.”  
  
Narcissa sighs and quickens her pace, disappearing into the stairwell with her robes rustling behind her.  
  
“Not even a word about leaving my plate to clean up later,” Draco murmurs. He pulls open the heavy front door and leans back when a gust of cold wind reaches out for his hair and clothes.  
  
“I have to admit, it’s strange thinking of either of you washing up your own plates,” Harry says, steeling himself and stepping out into the gloom.  
  
The savage gusts that have been whipping across the grounds since before sunrise have thinned the fog a little bit but mostly seem to be doing nothing more than moving it from one place to another. The feeling of a silent, spectral void remains, and only his determination to make some progress on the shed front today prevents him from stepping back and closing the door on it. Yesterday had been immensely satisfying in many ways, but it had left Harry feeling cold, damp and exhausted.  
  
Still. He promised Draco a shed, and a shed he will have. Lighting his wand, Harry walks carefully across the portico and down the steps. He hears the door bang shut and then Draco’s footsteps behind him.  
  
“I make my own bed, too,” he says.  
  
“With a spell?” Harry asks, amused.  
  
“I make my own bed,” Draco repeats.  
  
Harry laughs. When they reach the recovery area, still festooned with brightly-coloured lights, Draco heads for the clinic and Harry continues on to his building site on the edge of the wood, oddly pleased to realise that Harold, Chase and Peter are trundling after him.  
  
“You’d better be good,” he says, shrugging off his rucksack and pulling out the roll of parchment containing his final schematic for the shed.  
  
He dries a section of ground with his wand and then crouches, unrolling the large sheet and pinning it down with a hand or a knee on each corner so that he can examine it and remind himself exactly where he left off earlier in the week.  
  
Chase rolls over the parchment, leaving it dotted with snow, and Harry sighs. There is still so much to do, and his hopes of completing the project before Christmas are fading into the icy mist. Sitting back on his heels, he casts a brief _Lumos_ and gazes at the half-finished framework with dissatisfaction. The work is solid; the problem is that there just isn’t very much of it. Harry grimaces and a vicious blast of wind seems to slap him across the face, at the same time taking advantage of his inattention by grabbing up his schematic and stealing away into a wall of fog.  
  
Infuriated, Harry scrambles to his feet and chases after it. He dashes into the void, lit wand doing very little to improve visibility, desperation to reclaim his stolen parchment fuelled partly by outrage and partly by the fact that the bloody thing took forever to complete and is—because he is an idiot—the only copy that exists. The wind fights him with every step, seeming to blow the fog directly into his face in an attempt to disorient him, and it isn’t long before he realises that the pursuit is pointless. He can’t see his own hand in front of his face, let alone his lost parchment, and all he can hear is the wind howling in his ears and the sharp snap of twigs under his feet.  
  
Beaten, he slows, catching his breath.  
  
“Lumos Maxima,” he whispers, wondering why he hadn’t thought to try that a little bit earlier, and then there is a sickening clang of metal and Harry’s whole body explodes with pain.  
  
He cries out, the sound wrenching at his throat and scattering birds from the nearby trees. Slowly, he forces his eyes down to the ground, now illuminated sufficiently for him to see the trap, gleaming teeth buried in his flesh, tearing into his foot and ankle at a strange, grisly tilt that makes his head swim and his stomach turn. When he attempts to move, the pain is so disgusting that he vomits on the ground, retching onto the wet leaves until his insides are raw.  
  
He waits, hunched over with hands braced on knees, hoping for his head to clear enough to form a plan of action, but the buzzing behind his eyes only seems to be getting worse, and when he looks down again, he sees that the carpet of crunchy orange and brown is now stained with red. The metallic scent mixes with the rotting fug of the leaves and rises into Harry’s nostrils, making him heave again until he stumbles and almost falls.  
  
“Fuck this,” he mutters, grasping his wand in shaking fingers. “Fuck this thing.”  
  
As he aims at the trap, all he can think about is Briana’s mother and the desperation to take her baby somewhere safe that had been strong enough to carry her all the way out of the forest in search of Draco. With a huge effort, Harry focuses on her strength  and pushes away his fear, blasting a jet of white light at the trap and prying it open for just long enough that he can yank his foot clear before it snaps shut again with a horrible shudder.  
  
For several seconds, Harry stands very still and just breathes, ignoring the blood filling his wellington boot and seeping out of the jagged holes left by the trap’s metal teeth. When Harold, Chase and Peter come racing towards him out of the fog, he forces himself into action, picking up the trap and directing them ahead of him, slashing his wand at the blankness until he can see a way out. This time, his path is clear, and he is surprised by just how close to the edge of woods they all are.  
  
He pushes on, teeth gritted against the pain, hopping and dragging himself through the trees and onto the path. Harold turns in circles, talking loudly to Harry and peering at his injured foot with his little head tilted first onto one side and then the other, and Harry is surprised to find the whole thing rather comforting.  
  
“Don’t fuss, Harold, it hardly hurts at all,” Harry lies.  
  
Harold zigzags across the path in front of him and shrieks, apparently unconvinced. Ten seconds later, Draco emerges from the fog with his lantern and squints at them.  
  
“Harold, what on earth are you shouting about?” he calls.  
  
A bubble of nervousness rises above the pain and panic, and Harry hesitates before finally calling back: “He’s with me. I’m alright, it’s just... I’m alright.”  
  
Draco’s footsteps quicken, and when he reaches Harry, he holds the lantern up to study his face. Harry closes his eyes. The light feels sickly and oppressive in a way he can’t quite explain.  
  
“What’s the matter with you?” Draco asks, and then he draws in his breath sharply.  
  
Harry opens his eyes. Draco stares at the trap and the bloody footprints on the path, and then at Harry. His face is so pale that it’s almost grey.  
  
“How fucking dare they?” he whispers, rubbing a trembling hand across his face.  
  
“I know,” Harry says, wincing when Harold bumps into his injured ankle.  
  
“Was it close to your building site?” Draco demands, eyes sharp. “Was it hidden? Fuck, do you think they’re actually trying to hurt people now?”  
  
Harry’s stomach lurches. “No, I don’t think so,” he whispers.  
  
“How do you know? Putting those traps into the woods is one thing, but—”  
  
Harry grits his teeth against the pain, fingers wrapping around the cold, heavy trap, metal slippery with his blood. “This was in the wood,” he says before Draco can finish. “I went into the wood.”  
  
Draco expression flickers and twists as he stares at Harry. “Why would you do that?”  
  
“Draco, can we talk about this later?” Harry tries, but Draco isn’t listening.  
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Draco demands, an angry flush creeping into his cheeks. “I told you everything and you still... do you honestly think that being Harry fucking Potter means that you are somehow invulnerable? You are so fucking stupid! What were you even thinking, going in there like that?” Draco lets out a bark of ragged laughter. “Oh, wait, you probably weren’t thinking _at all_!”  
  
Harry stares at him for as long as he can stand it, then looks at the ground, where the blood is pooling at an alarming rate. His whole leg is throbbing now, and as he carefully shifts from one foot to the other, he is starting to suspect that something is broken. He takes a shaky breath.  
  
“My plans blew away and I went after them,” he says quietly, trying to keep a lid on the pressure building up inside him. “I didn’t do it to upset you.”  
  
“Well, I am upset!” Draco snaps. “I’m upset that you’re an idiot. I’m upset that you hurt yourself on my property... I’m upset that you’re hurt, alright?”  
  
Harry looks up, and when he meets Draco’s eyes the whole mess of fear and shame and confusion comes spilling out before he can do anything to stop it.  
  
“Why do you care?” he blurts. “I know you don’t want me here anyway!”  
  
Draco frowns. “What?”  
  
“I heard you,” Harry pants, knowing he’s ridiculous and no longer caring. He is in horrible pain and Draco is fucking inexplicable and he’s had enough. “I heard you talking to Sandrine about how I was a problem and you didn’t know what to do about me.”  
  
Draco looks stricken, but Harry presses on. He’s started now. The pig is very much out of the poke and he’s buggered if it’s going back in.  
  
“I heard you, so don’t pretend you’re concerned about me now. You nearly had me convinced that I was going mad... that you actually are a decent person, but screw it. I’m sure you’re thrilled I’m hurt so I’ll bugger off and leave you alone.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” Draco demands.  
  
“You and Sandrine. At the bottom of the drive. Talking about me. I was at the gates. You didn’t see me, but I was there,” Harry says, blinking as his head begins to spin. “And now I’m leaving, because as you can see, I have stood on a fucking boar trap.”  
  
As he drops the trap onto the path with a crash and prepares to Disapparate, Draco reaches out and grabs his wrist.  
  
“Don’t. I think I know which conversation you’re talking about and, as usual, you’ve rather missed the point,” he says, drawing his wand and casting the same green spell around Harry’s foot that he had used on the injured pig. “Come on, you should be able to walk on it without damaging it any more now. We can go to the clinic and have a look.”  
  
Bewildered, Harry allows himself to be led. Draco’s magic feels cool and secure around his foot and his fingers wrap tightly around his wrist, thumb sliding around as though feeling for a pulse. His anger has ebbed away, leaving him feeling floaty and serene. He follows Draco into the clinic, laughing so loudly when Harold manages to dart in after them that he surprises himself as well as Draco.  
  
“What did you put in that spell?” he wonders out loud, sitting on the cold examination table and allowing Draco to ease his legs up in front of him.  
  
“It’s just a stasis charm,” Draco says. “You’re feeling lightheaded because you’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll find a potion for you in a minute, and then I’ll call Sandrine.”  
  
Harry opens one eye, surprised to realise that he has closed them. “No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Mm.  Call Hermione. She’s a proper Healer. Not that Sandrine’s not proper, but... I’m not a pig,” Harry says uncertainly.  
  
“Fair enough,” Draco says. “Let’s just have a look first, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Harry says, peering down at his ruined boot. “Can I claim for new wellies on your insurance?”  
  
Draco stares at him. His eyes are grey. They’re pretty.  
  
“I think I’ll get that blood replenishing potion now,” he mutters, and then there is a little cup in Harry’s hands and he is drinking it because Draco said so and because it tastes nice like blackcurrant tea.  
  
While he drinks, Draco gently removes his boot and Harry only swears a little bit when it hurts like buggery-fuck.  
  
“That looks broken to me,” Draco says, wrinkling his nose. “Shall I call Hermione at home or at St Mungo’s?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry says, peering into his cup. “Draco, how did I miss the point?”  
  
Draco turns at the door. “Excuse me?”  
  
Harry looks at him and smiles. And then frowns. This is serious.  
  
“You said I missed the point about the conversation. Was it not about how you don’t like me?”  
  
Draco sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “No, it was not.”  
  
“What was it about, then?”  
  
“I should go and make that firecall.”  
  
“Just tell me this one thing,” Harry says, poking his finger into the bottom of the cup and gathering the last bit of potion on the end of it. “I might lose my foot.”  
  
Draco’s smile is brilliant. It’s the best one Harry has ever seen and it makes his heart swell in his chest. He licks the sticky potion from his finger.  
  
“Alright. Sandrine and I weren’t talking about not liking you. We both like you very much.”  
  
“You like me?” Harry asks, startled.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Then why did you sound so cross about it?”  
  
Draco flushes. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it if you found out.”  
  
Harry sighs, tilting his head in an attempt to stop the spinning and gazing down at his bloodied foot as though it belongs to someone else.  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“Of course not,” Draco says. “Stay where you are. The potion should start to work in a few minutes. I’m going to get hold of Hermione.”  
  
Harry nods and leans back on his hands, closing his eyes and humming to himself as the blood rushes through his veins, mixing with the delicious potion and building itself back to full strength. Slowly, he comes back to himself, rising out of the haze in his head and gasping at the renewed pain in his foot and ankle. Along with the pain comes understanding, and he jerks upright when Draco’s words drift back to him.  
  
Harry remembers his flushed face and feels his skin heat along with it.  
  
 _I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it if you found out,_ he thinks _,_ and then: _I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do about him._  
  
Draco likes him. Draco likes him enough to worry about his reaction. He is in a disgusting amount of pain, and his mouth is trying to tug into a smile. Nothing really makes sense, but at least Hermione is on her way. She’ll know what to do about his injury, and perhaps she’ll have a few ideas about Draco, too.  
  
He doesn’t have to wait too long to find out. Barely ten minutes have passed before the door to the clinic swings open and Hermione steps inside. She winces at the sight of his injury and hurries to his side with her bag stuffed under her arm.  
  
“Are you okay?” she asks, adding in a sly whisper: “He’s right behind me. He looks really worried about you.”  
  
Harry nods, feeling his face heating yet again. “It hurts like hell but I’ve had a potion for the blood loss.”  
  
“Draco told me about the traps,” she says, raising her voice to normal volume as Draco walks into the clinic and shuts the door on the wind. She pulls her wand out of the pocket of her Healer robes and taps it against her hand. “If you ask me, you should drag them through the courts for this—you think they’re Muggles, don’t you?”  
  
“It would seem that way, yes,” Draco says. His eyes flick to Harry’s and then he turns to Hermione. “The problem is, we don’t know who they are and the last thing I need is a load of Muggle police people anywhere near my property.”  
  
“Perhaps we won’t need that,” Hermione says, and Harry is amused to see that she has immediately involved herself in the situation. “We’ve got Harry’s injury... and that,” she adds, pointing to the trap, which is now sitting broken on the tiled floor.  
  
Draco regards her cautiously. “We could stop them that way? Take Muggle action?”  
  
Hermione laughs. “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. If we can find the people who are doing it and prove that their trap hurt Harry, they’ll be in a lot of trouble.”  
  
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Harry mumbles to himself.  
  
“You were too busy coming up with schemes involving chasing after hogglers with bits of string,” Draco says, much to Hermione’s confusion.  
  
“Well,” she says after a moment, “I’m off tomorrow, so we can sit down and make a plan if you like. For now, let’s clean this up and then I can... oh.”  
  
“What?” Harry asks. Hermione is frowning in a way that makes him slightly nervous.  
  
“It’s nothing, just that as soon as I heal this, there won’t be any evidence.”  
  
Harry sighs, understanding immediately.  
  
“We can take pictures,” Draco says, stalking off to the closet and returning with a dusty old camera.  
  
“We should do that anyway,” Hermione says, and Draco immediately starts snapping pictures of Harry’s ankle. “But the Muggle courts would want more than that. Hospital records, x-rays... Harry would probably need a cast on his leg.” She sighs and throws an apologetic glance at Draco. “Never mind. I’ll think of something else. In the meantime, keep still, Harry. I’m going to heal the bone first, and then the rest.”  
  
She raises her wand to cast and Draco steps back with the camera.  
  
“No,” Harry says quickly.  
  
Hermione lowers her wand, eyebrows knitted. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“If we don’t do something, they’ll never stop, will they?” he says, twisting to look at Draco. “I think we should trust Hermione, and if she thinks we should get this fixed the Muggle way, that’s what we should do.”  
  
“That’s not exactly what I said, Harry,” Hermione attempts, but Draco is already nudging her aside and staring down at Harry fiercely.  
  
“Absolutely not. You’ve seen what those traps can do, and so have I, too many times to count. We will think of something else.” He turns to Hermione. “Ignore him, he’s trying to be noble and I won’t have it.”  
  
Hermione sighs. “It’s his leg, Draco.”  
  
“That is true,” Harry says, though he suspects that neither of them is paying him any attention.  
  
“You have to fix him,” Draco says flatly. “It’s your duty as a Healer.”  
  
Now Hermione smiles. “Yes, but it’s also my duty to respect the patient’s wishes. What do you want to do, Harry?”  
  
“I think I’d like a cup of terrible coffee from a vending machine and a flick through a copy of _Good Housekeeping_ from June 1995,” he says, and Hermione grins.  
  
 “What kind of an answer is that?” Draco asks, bemused.  
  
“A good one, I think,” Hermione says. “First of all, though, let’s get our stories straight...”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Harry shifts on his plastic chair and gazes up at the fluorescent strip lights on the ceiling. The one directly above his head is emitting a constant humming sound that is, after two and a half hours of waiting, starting to set his teeth on edge. Despite Hermione’s excellent pain-killing potion, his foot and ankle are causing him considerable discomfort, and he is beginning to wonder if he should have just allowed her to heal him with a couple of spells. It would have been the work of a moment, and a skilled Healer like Hermione wouldn’t have left even the smallest trace of a scar behind.  
  
“I played with the device over there and won you this,” Draco says, sitting down next to him and holding out a Kitkat.  
  
Harry smiles. He can’t help it.  
  
“Thank you,” he says solemnly, accepting the chocolate and wondering just how Draco managed to get hold of the coins necessary to operate the vending machine.  
  
When he looks over at Hermione, she is slipping her purse back into her bag and reopening a tattered magazine. She has removed her lime green robes and is now sitting in the waiting room in jeans and a thin t-shirt, and Harry is a little envious of the fact that she is the only one not sweltering in the overheated conditions. The waiting room is quiet now, but for much of the afternoon it has been packed full of the idiotic and accident-prone, and so noisy that Harry has had to strain to hear Draco’s questions and Hermione’s explanations about the Muggle legal system.  
  
For a while he tries to contribute, but when the pain starts to fog his brain again, he sits back and just observes them, wondering how long it has been since they last saw each other, and if, in fact, they have ever before had a normal conversation. Warmed by their easy communication, Harry closes his eyes and tries to relax.  
  
When his name is finally called, Hermione pokes Draco.  
  
“He’ll only be allowed to take one of us with him, and I’ve been here plenty of times.”  
  
Draco allows Harry to lean on him as they make their way to the examination room, but his eyes are everywhere, taking in the rattling trolleys and the arrows on the floor with clear interest. Once inside, he stands beside the doctor and watches as the blood is swabbed away from Harry’s skin and enclosed in a clean, white bandage.  
  
“Is that all?” he whispers, and Harry shakes his head.  
  
“X-ray department—follow the red arrows,” the doctor says, handing Harry a card. “Take this with you. You’ll need a cast and some stitches in that, but one thing at a time.”  
  
“Thanks,” Harry says, nudging Draco out of the room and almost colliding with Hermione, who is waiting with a wheelchair and a stern expression.  
  
Harry sits down obediently, allowing Hermione to push him through the corridors.  
  
“He wasn’t very nice,” Draco says.  
  
“Wasn’t he?” Hermione asks, sounding scandalised.  
  
“He wasn’t... not nice. He was stressed. A bit abrupt. Probably hadn’t stopped all day,” Harry says.  
  
“I used to know someone a bit like that,” Hermione says.  
  
Harry twists around to look at her. “What do you mean, you used to?”  
  
She shrugs. “You’re getting better.”  
  
Draco is most put out that he isn’t allowed into the room with the x-ray machine, and is horrified when the second doctor examines the films and calmly tells Harry that he has broken three bones. He pronounces the injection against tetanus ‘horrendous’ but does not look away once during the procedure, and he is fascinated by the nurse who turns a bowl of soggy bandages into a smooth, solid cast that encompasses Harry’s leg from his toes to just below his knee. His curiosity is compelling, not just for Harry but for the weary doctors and nurses, so much so that even the harassed first doctor finds a smile for Draco when he leans in to examine the stitching and proclaims the finished product to be ‘very neat’.  
  
Night has fallen by the time they are ready to leave. Hermione is covering a yawn when Harry and Draco emerge from the last room but her eyes flit approvingly over Harry’s new cast and crutches.  
  
“Good as new?” she asks, rising and walking slowly beside them to the exit.  
  
“Hardly,” Draco says. “All that fuss and the bones are still broken. Three bones at that.”  
  
“I can’t feel it now, though,” Harry points out, warmed by the concern in his voice. “That’s what the cast is for.”  
  
“And,” Hermione adds in a whisper, “when we get back, I’ll heal it properly. We only needed to do all of this so we had records of Harry being treated.”  
  
“Right,” Harry says. “And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy all the fuss, as you put it, because I know you did.”  
  
“I won’t, then,” Draco says airily, but he reaches out to steady Harry when they all duck behind the building to Disapparate together.  
  
“Why is your house always so cold?” Hermione asks, starting to shiver the moment they appear in Harry’s kitchen.  
  
Harry doesn’t answer, distracted as he is by Draco’s curious glances around the room. All at once he feels incredibly self conscious about his house, ashamed of the piles of papers and the air of disuse. If he weren’t on crutches, he thinks he might dash into the living room and spell everything into hiding, light a fire and fill the air with the scents of candles and beeswax. As it is, he hobbles awkwardly across the tiles, crutches digging into his armpits, and picks up the kettle. Hermione grabs it out of his hand in an instant and shoves him into a chair at the table.  
  
“Tea, Draco?” she asks, as though they have been friends for years.  
  
“Thank you.” He sits beside Harry and frowns. “You know, I have the horrible feeling I locked Harold in the clinic when we left.”  
  
“Will he be upset?” Hermione asks, rummaging in Harry’s cupboard for tea bags.  
  
“No. He’ll be delighted. Sandrine might be upset when she comes in tomorrow and sees the havoc he’s caused, though,” Draco says, but he doesn’t seem terribly concerned.  
  
“I’d like to meet Sandrine,” Hermione says. “Perhaps I will tomorrow, if you still want me to come over and discuss the plan.”  
  
“Of course,” Draco says, and Harry just sits and listens to them, unsure how to feel about the very real sensation that all the different parts of his life are starting to bleed together.  
  
“Would it be alright if I bring Rose?” Hermione asks, pouring the tea. “She’s really well-behaved and she’s got one of those teacher-training days tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes,” Draco says, and then: “What’s a teacher-training day?”  
  
Harry chews on his lip and allows himself to drift, inhaling the warm, fragrant steam from the cups on the counter and deciding not to worry about any of it. At least, not right now.  
  
Finally, Hermione pushes her empty cup away and kneels on the tiles to examine his cast.  
  
“They’ve done a good job of this,” she says, touching the plaster with her fingertips. She looks up at him with a wistful smile. “You know, it’s a real shame you can’t keep it on for a while.”  
  
“Why?” Harry asks.  
  
“Well, because it would be a good reminder for you,” she says and then stops, changing tack. “When someone is suffering with an invisible illness... let’s say depression, or... lycanthropy, even... they often find it hard to accept that what they’re going through is real. They also worry that other people will judge them because what’s wrong with them isn’t easy to see.”  
  
“My mother feels like that all the time,” Draco says, and Hermione turns to him.  
  
“Depression?” she asks.  
  
“She calls it fear, but I think it’s anxiety,” he says, glancing at Harry and seeming to draw strength from his nod of agreement. “She says it makes her feel ridiculous.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Draco,” Hermione says softly. “The thing is, it’s very common to feel like that, and one of the things they teach Mind Healers to do is to tell those patients to imagine their illness is a broken leg. It’s just as real as any physical problem and it’s fine to need help, like crutches or a cast. You wouldn’t judge someone for having a broken leg or tell them they were making it up. It’s surprisingly effective,” she says, resting her hand on Harry’s cast and shooting him a small smile.  
  
“I’ve accepted that I’m not okay, Hermione,” he says after a moment. “You’ve convinced me.”  
  
“Yes, but have you accepted your limitations?” she challenges, and then laughs. “Oh, Harry, don’t look like that. I just think it’s ironic that I’ve spent so long trying to slow you down and then you’ve managed to get yourself into this!”  
  
“I bet you can’t,” Draco says suddenly.  
  
Harry turns to him, heart speeding. “You bet I can’t what?”  
  
“I bet you can’t keep it on. I bet you can’t keep it on for one week.”  
  
“Draco, making bets with you is how I ended up in this situation,” Harry says, folding his arms.  
  
To his surprise, Draco looks quite horrified, and Harry realises just how that must have sounded.  
  
“Oh, fuck, no—not this situation,” he says, indicating his leg. “I meant the whole thing, with... you know what? Fine. I’ll do it. One week.”  
  
Hermione makes an odd little sound as they shake hands. “So, I’m just... healing this?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry says stridently. “Heal the bone and the cuts and leave this thing on. Please. Because I’m a mad person. A mad person who is ready to accept his limitations.”  
  
“Okay,” she says, and she is smiling as she draws her wand carefully along Harry’s foot and around his ankle, surrounding it with tight warmth and then a wave of itching that makes him immediately wish he could reach inside the cast and scratch at his skin.  
  
Finally, it subsides, and with it, so do the last fragments of discomfort. “Thank you,” he sighs.  
  
“You’re welcome. Hey, wait until Arthur sees this, he’ll be so... oh, my goodness,” Hermione mumbles, clapping a hand to her mouth. “It’s Sunday. You’ve missed lunch at the Burrow.”  
  
Harry stares at her and then at the darkness outside the window. “So have you.”  
  
“No, I was supposed to be at work,” Hermione says.  
  
“I made up a family emergency,” Draco offers helpfully.  
  
“It _was_ a family emergency,” Hermione says. She takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll go over there now and explain what happened. She’ll be fine as long as she knows you’re alright.”  
  
“I’m not,” Harry points out, indicating his immobilised leg.  
  
“As far as Molly is concerned, you’re fine,” Hermione says, getting to her feet and picking up her bag. “Unless you want her to hear all the grisly details?”  
  
Harry shakes his head. “Er, no. On second thoughts, I’m fine.”  
  
Hermione smiles and hugs him. “Take care of yourself. No cheating,” she says, glancing at the crutches. “Draco, I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
When she disappears into the green flames, Draco gets up from the table and heads for the fireplace, too.  
  
“I’ve rather neglected everyone today,” he explains, and Harry nods, squashing his disappointment.  
  
“Harold will be pleased to see you,” he says. “Listen... thanks for today. For being with me. I appreciate it.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” Draco grants him a small, surprised smile just before throwing his powder into the flames and disappearing, leaving Harry alone in his kitchen.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Fourteenth of December – Christmas pudding muffins**  
  
  
  
The sun is streaming in through Harry’s window when he stirs slowly into consciousness. Letting out a contented sigh, he stretches under his quilt, fingers sliding over warm cotton and bare legs brushing together. When the alien presence of hard plaster registers against his skin, his eyes snap open and he throws back the covers to stare at his left leg. In spite of the morning sunshine, the room is cold and he starts to shiver almost immediately, but he doesn’t move. His head is flooded with a wash of vivid sense memories from the day before, and all he can do is sprawl there and let them crash over him in waves.  
  
He closes his eyes but he can still see the gleaming metal of the trap, the blood soaked into the forest floor, Draco’s eyes fierce with anger and horror and bright with curiosity under flickering fluorescent lights; he can smell rotting leaves and the sweet scent of Hermione’s hair, and when he flexes his toes he can feel the hot crunch of pain that no longer exists.  
  
He has been healed. Hermione has knitted his broken bones back together and fixed his torn flesh and all that remains is a plaster cast that is little more than a symbol of his own stubbornness.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” he tells himself, glaring down at his leg and flopping back onto his pillows.  
  
The sun is warm on his face and the sky outside the window is bright and clear, seeming to mock him in his uselessness. He doesn’t need to look out at the street to know that the snow has melted and the wind has gentled to a soft breeze. The conditions are perfect for building, but he won’t be doing any of that without a schematic and a full set of working limbs.  
  
Crossly, he pulls his quilt and blankets back up to his chin, wondering just what it is about Draco and his challenges that he can’t resist. If he had just had a sliver of self control, he could have let Hermione take off the cast and now he could be walking up the drive of the Manor completely unhindered with the expectation of doing something useful with his day. Instead, he’s hiding inside a cocoon of bedclothes at—he glances at his clock— _ten past ten_ in the morning and wondering just how he’s going to get down the stairs on his stupid crutches.  
  
_Slow down, Harry_ , Hermione says sternly, and he bats her out of his head, but she is back within seconds. _Remember, this is a chance for you to accept your limitations._  
  
“I’ll accept your limitations in a minute,” he mutters, fighting down a wave of panic.  
  
He’s not stuck here. He’s not injured, not really, and it’s all going to be fine. After all, Draco likes him, and if he really wants to, he can grab his wand and vanish the cast with one flick of the wrist.  
  
He could. Harry glances at his wand on the bedside cabinet. He is not powerless.  
  
Harry lets out a rough sound of frustration and ducks all the way under his bedclothes. No, he is not powerless, but he _is_ anxious and obsessive and he needs to take control of this before everything he has learned in the last two weeks unravels before his eyes and he falls back to square one.  
  
With a deep, slightly wobbly breath, he throws back the covers once more and swings his legs out of bed. His right foot connects with the cold floor and his left sort of balances there, unsteady on its hard plaster base.  
  
“I can do this... whatever this actually is,” he says to the room.  
  
Hermione and Rose are going to the Manor today, and all of a sudden, the idea that he won’t be there to meet them makes Harry feel sad. Focusing on the bathroom as his destination, he rises carefully and hobbles across the floor. After a small celebration, he turns on the shower, wraps the cast in a waterproofing charm and hops under the water.  
  
It is almost eleven o’clock when he reaches the top of the drive, and he is far from getting the hang of the crutches. When Draco walks around the corner and sees him, he is suddenly very conscious of the prickling sweat on his forehead and the flush of his skin, but he shoves it all away, focusing instead on the surprise in the grey eyes and the way they flicker all over him.  
  
“For some reason, I thought you might have taken the day off,” Draco says. “Now I realise that you have just decided to be horribly late.”  
  
“Fashionably late?” Harry tries, and Draco’s almost-smile floods him with warmth.  
  
Draco makes a show of looking over his unruly hair, his favourite red jumper, his worn jeans and his one undamaged wellington boot.  
  
“I think not.”  
  
“Oh, well.” Harry shrugs. “Is Hermione here yet?”  
  
“Apparently,” Draco says, eyebrow twitching as he peers at something over Harry’s shoulder.  
  
Harry turns just in time to see Hermione and Rose stepping out onto the portico, hand in hand. Behind them, carrying a large white box and looking somewhat sheepish, is Ron.  
  
“We came out of the wrong fireplace,” Hermione says. “Your mother told us how to get out here.”  
  
“My mother?” Draco repeats, astonished.  
  
“She has sixteen whole cats,” Rose says, looking up at him. “I counted them.”  
  
“That’s right,” Draco says faintly. “I’m just surprised that she was so... sociable.”  
  
Hermione wrinkles her nose in mute apology. “I don’t think she really had a choice. She was watering some plants in the parlour and we all just sort of came tumbling out of the fireplace. Harry, what on earth are you doing here?” she adds, seeming to notice him at last.  
  
“Helping?” Harry tries, shifting on his crutches. “I don’t know... but you said I should slow down, not grind to a halt.”  
  
Hermione sighs, squeezing Rose’s hand when she stares at the cast poking out of the leg of his jeans.  
  
“Uncle Harry isn’t hurt, remember?” she says. “He’s just doing an experiment.”  
  
“Does that mean he’s a scientist?” she asks, eyes large and round.  
  
“That’s right,” Harry says. “Part time builder, part time scientist, full time Uncle Harry.”  
  
Rose giggles and Hermione gives him a grateful smile.  
  
“So!” Ron says loudly, and everyone turns to look at him. He blushes. “Hi, Malfoy.”  
  
“Weasley,” Draco says uncertainly.  
  
“I brought muffins,” Ron says, opening the box in his hands and thrusting it towards Draco.  
  
Amused, Harry cranes his neck to see into the box, charmed by Ron’s clear attempt to persuade Draco that having his nice quiet life invaded by noisy Gryffindors isn’t all bad. Within seconds, the smell of alcohol hits him in a wave so strong that he almost steps back. Draco’s eyes widen comically and he stares at Ron.  
  
“Brandy?” he asks, blinking rapidly.  
  
“Yeah, just a bit,” Ron says. “The boys and girls at the office like them a bit boozy... I make them every year, but I thought I’d make some extra for you when Hermione told me what happened.”  
  
Harry watches Draco’s face as he attempts to process this information. Finally, he takes the box from Ron with a guarded, “Thank you, Weasley.”  
  
Now close enough for a proper look at the contents, Harry smiles. These aren’t just any old muffins; these are Ron’s special Christmas pudding muffins. Each one is made from a rich, fruity sponge with candied peel, crystallised ginger and fat sultanas, and then decorated to resemble a perfect, tiny pudding with coloured icing in the shapes of berries and leaves of holly, not to mention the generous glug of brandy and a festive scattering of glitter. Ron takes pride in all of his cooking these days, but these muffins are special, and the fact that he has brought a whole dozen of them for Draco makes Harry want to hug him to death. Or hit him with a crutch. It’s complicated.  
  
He looks at Hermione and she looks back, darting a significant glance at the box that makes Harry grin. They know what’s going on here, even if Harry himself is only just starting to understand, and he loves them for it.  
  
“Are you alright, mate?” Ron asks, fixing Harry with a look that he has definitely learned from his mother.  
  
“I’m fine,” Harry promises.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be at work, Weasley?” Draco asks suddenly, and though his tone is curious rather than accusing, Ron bristles a little.  
  
“I am,” he says, correcting his slouching posture so that he rather towers over Draco. “I’m a team leader in Magical Games and Sports and this is official business... sort of.”  
  
“What has Magical Games and Sports got to do with me?” Draco asks, folding his arms.  
  
“Well, nothing, when you put it like that, but my team works with wards and concealment charms—Muggle repelling magic in particular. Where do you want me to start?” Ron asks, looking out over the grounds with interest.  
  
“Start?” Draco repeats coolly, the effect of his glare somewhat dampened by the arrival of Harold, who runs excitedly around his legs to Ron and then falls over, whirring loudly. “Would somebody like to explain to me what is going on?”  
  
“Oh, for... gosh darn it,” Hermione mutters, glancing at Rose and then at Draco. “It’s my fault. I was thinking about the situation with the poachers last night when I was on my own in the waiting room and I had this idea. Draco, you said you don’t know how the Muggles are getting in with the traps because you have protective magic around the woods, and I thought that if anyone can give them a really good once-over for you, it’s Ron, and Ron thought it was a brilliant idea, and I think it might be, but I also think I might have forgotten the part where I was supposed to tell you about it.”  
  
Hermione bites her lip and looks at Draco, anguish clear on her face. “I’m sorry,” she adds.  
  
Draco says nothing for such a long time that Harry has to press his lips together to stop himself from breaking the silence. Eventually, his eyebrows knit into a light frown and he sighs.  
  
“You have been extraordinarily helpful already,” he says. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow either of you to do anything further for me.”  
  
His expression is so formal, so brittle, that Harry aches. He wants to reach out and grab his hand... then grab the other and shake him until he understands that people like Ron and Hermione don’t keep balance sheets of their good deeds. They give freely and when they choose to forgive, they do so without holding back. They do not offer help without the full intention to follow through, even if they do sometimes offer help without remembering to actually offer it.  
  
Finally, Hermione speaks, and when Harry hears her no-nonsense tone, he suspects that Draco’s objections are futile.  
  
“My helpfulness is not a finite resource,” she says, squeezing Rose’s shoulder and nudging her over to Harry’s side. She beckons to Ron and takes Draco’s shoulder, and before he has time to protest, she is tugging him down the steps and towards the path. Ron follows them with a bemused smile. “If you and Harry are going to be proper friends now, I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with us. Anyway—here’s what I thought we could do...”  
  
Harry and Rose watch them out of sight and then look at each other. The little girl seems unperturbed by the turn of events and responds enthusiastically when Harry suggests a trip to look at the animals in the recovery pens. He has no idea when the others will return but he is content enough to play babysitter to a four-year-old girl and a trio of mischievous creatures, even if Harold, Chase and Peter seem intent on sending him flying.  
  
“All left behind, what shall we do?” he asks Rose theatrically.  
  
She laughs and bends to stroke Peter’s pink feathers while she waits for him to catch up.  
  
“You can’t go in the woods on those!” she says. “You’d get stuck.”  
  
“That is true,” he agrees. “Fortunately, we have lots of animals right here. Including a snake with two heads.”  
  
Clearly delighted, Rose bounces up and down, and at her side, Chase copies her.  
  
When they reach the recovery pens, Harry is exhausted, but he hobbles around with Rose and shows her each animal, telling her their names and histories and, where he can remember, exactly what is wrong with them. Rose is possessed of boundless curiosity and isn’t the slightest bit squeamish, so by the time she has heard everything Harry has to say, he is starting to feel unsteady on his crutches.  
  
“Alright,” he says, admitting defeat and Summoning the old chair Sandrine had found to sit in during the school visit. “You can play anywhere you like as long as I can still see you, okay?”  
  
Rose nods, and he sinks into the chair, allowing the crutches to clatter onto the stone beside him. He casts a warming charm on his bare toes and settles down to watch Rose tearing across the courtyard with Harold, Chase and Peter in pursuit. After a few minutes, the door to the clinic swings open and Sandrine’s clacking footsteps ring out on the flags. She conjures herself another chair and sits down beside Harry, passing him a bundled-up Briana and leaning back, one leg crossed over the other.  
  
“I heard about what happened,” she says. “Are you really going to keep that on for a week?”  
  
Harry holds out his palm for Briana to snuffle. “I am a stubborn, stubborn man, Sandrine.”  
  
She laughs. “I know. You and Draco are made for each other.”  
  
Harry stares at her, stomach flipping violently. “We aren’t... you know... together.”  
  
“I’m deaf, not blind,” she says, signing along with her words. “It’s obvious. I know it and you know it and Draco knows it.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry says, startled, and looks away.  
  
He strokes Briana’s coat and traces the ridge of white fur that runs along her back. Feeling Sandrine’s eyes on him, he rubs her little ears gently between his fingers and counts the tiny white spots that scatter over her shoulder blades. He jumps at the sound of a loud clap and instinctively looks around for Rose, but she is peering into the snake’s pen with her fingers laced into the mesh. Slowly, Harry looks at Sandrine and finds her looking back at him expectantly.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, suddenly realising that turning away from a person who reads lips mid-conversation is probably quite rude. “I just keep feeling surprised that I’m so easy to read.”  
  
Sandrine smiles. “So is Draco,” she says, drawing her fingers across one eyebrow. “He thinks he’s not, but he is.”  
  
“I’m glad you think so. I’m still learning.” Harry grimaces as his shin begins to itch underneath the cast. “Oh, that’s frustrating. I’ve got no idea what spell to use, though.”  
  
“Try a knitting needle,” Sandrine suggests, miming the action of sliding the long needle down inside the plaster.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes. I broke my humerus when I was nine. Netball accident,” Sandrine says, grinning. “Muggleborn.”  
  
Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t realise netball was a contact sport.”  
  
“It’s not,” Sandrine says. “I was trying to read the other team’s lips and I ran into a concrete wall.”  
  
Harry bites down on a smile. “I don’t suppose I can say anything after what I did yesterday.”  
  
“Maybe not, but you should try the knitting needle.”  
  
“Is that a baby pig?” Rose asks, pitching up next to them with her new friends in tow.  
  
“Yes,” Harry says, gazing wearily at Harold, who has decided to peck at his cast. “Her name is Briana. She’s a great hoggler piglet.”  
  
“Do you want to feed her?” Sandrine asks, producing a bottle from her coat.  
  
Rose stares up at her, stunned into rare silence by this striking lady with pointed, lime green shoes and streaks in her hair to match. She nods mutely, taking the bottle from Sandrine and darting glances at her as she climbs onto Harry’s lap to feed Briana. When Harold and his friends dash away in search of fresh havoc, a calm silence falls over the little group. Briana sucks enthusiastically at the bottle in Rose’s hand, and all three of them watch her with satisfaction. In just six days, she has grown larger and healthier, and her odds of survival are as strong as any other young hoggler. If everything goes according to plan, she will soon join Melissa’s litter and learn how to live among her own kind.  
  
Inevitably, Rose has questions about this process, too, but she whispers them to Harry as though fearful of disturbing Briana’s mealtime. When Ron, Hermione, and Draco return from the woods, she doesn’t move from Harry’s lap and doesn’t even look at her parents until she is sure that the bottle is empty of milk.  
  
“Wow, Rosie, did you feed a pig?” Hermione asks, looking impressed.  
  
Rose strokes Briana’s velvety ears. “She’s not a pig, Mummy, she’s a hoggler.”  
  
“I see,” Hermione says, tempering a smile. “You must be Sandrine.”  
  
She strides across the courtyard and sticks out a hand for Sandrine to shake. While the introductions are being made, Draco hangs back and watches with an air of quiet astonishment. Harry can’t help but empathise—now that Rose and Ron have added themselves to the mix, he feels even more strongly that all of his little worlds are colliding. All he needs now is for Hannah, Pyotr and Alexander to turn up and the madness will be complete, he thinks, and then Draco flashes him a secret smile and he starts to wonder if the whole thing might just be rather wonderful.  
  
“Apparently, my wards were quite badly degraded,” Draco says, falling back to walk beside Harry as they all head back to the house. He scowls lightly. “I do think Weasley was exaggerating a little bit about how bad they were, but... he fixed them. Don’t tell him I said so, but it was all quite impressive.”  
  
Harry laughs. “Not a word. I’ve seen some of his work before, though. He’s brilliant with the Muggle-repelling stuff.”  
  
“Yes,” Draco sighs. “I’ve tested them several times over the years and never found anything like that. He set up this fancy diagnostic field and it just lit up like a Christmas tree. No wonder those miscreants have been able to get through.”  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Harry says, brushing his hand against Draco’s arm and almost losing one of his crutches.  
  
“It is, but it’s fixed now. Not even the world’s top Muggle could get through the spells Weasley put up,” Draco says. “And he brought me muffins.”  
  
“And who exactly is the world’s top Muggle?” Harry asks, grinning.  
  
Draco shrugs and kicks at the gravel. “How should I know?”  
  
“HAVE YOU BEEN TO SKYE? THEY’VE GOT A RESTAURANT THERE THAT HAS THE BEST DESSERTS I HAVE EVER HAD!” Ron bellows, and poor Sandrine leans back slightly as she walks beside him.  
  
His voice has been getting progressively louder since their conversation started, and it has now reached the point where Harold, who had been following them along the path, has streaked off under a bush in alarm.  
  
“No,” Sandrine says at a more civilised volume. “But I love Scottish food. Do they have cranachan? That’s my favourite. Especially when they put whisky in it.”  
  
“I LOVE WHISKY!” Ron yells, and Hermione glances apologetically at Sandrine.  
  
“It’s his Great Aunt Muriel’s fault, really,” she explains to Harry and Draco. “She carries around this great big ear trumpet and insists she’s hard of hearing, but I think she just likes to get cross at people and make them repeat themselves... Ron! Don’t shout at her, just speak clearly!”  
  
Ron turns to look at her, surprised. “Sorry. Sorry,” he adds, looking back at Sandrine, who signs ‘no problem’ and smiles at him. “It’s my Great Auntie Muriel... she’s got this great big ear trumpet...”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Fifteenth of December – Making mulled wine**  
  
  
  
“Where are you going, hopalong?” Draco asks, making Harry jump and drop one of his crutches.  
  
Slowly, he turns to face Draco, who is reclining in the tatty armchair and gazing up at him with an expression of studied nonchalance.  
  
“I was just going to look at the site and try to redraw my plans before I forget what they look like,” Harry says, leaning down to pick up his crutch and groaning when his rucksack attempts to strangle him. “Is there any need for you to sit there waiting for me like that? I didn’t even see you.”  
  
“I know,” Draco says, unfolding himself from the chair. He starts back down the path to the house and gestures for Harry to follow him. “Come on.”  
  
Harry hesitates for a moment and then gives in, hauling himself over the stones and muttering mutinously under his breath. He is still struggling with the crutches and retracing his steps is not high on his list of priorities, but there is an air of anticipation around Draco that makes him curious. Just as he drags himself up onto the portico, the first few spots of rain splash onto his face, and he hobbles a little faster, deciding that whatever Draco wants will at least keep him dry.  
  
Draco stops at the stairs that lead down to the kitchen and holds out his hands expectantly.  
  
“Give those to me,” he says.  
  
Harry sighs and hands over his crutches. “Anything else? Would you like my clothes? Some star jumps, perhaps?” he asks.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco says, but the look he gives Harry sends a shiver of heat down his spine. He turns and clatters down the stairs and Harry follows, using his hands to steady himself against the stone walls and hopping on his rubber booted foot.  
  
The kitchen is empty but welcoming. A fire crackles in the grate and Narcissa’s horse brasses gleam in the light of multiple lanterns. Harry takes a seat at the table before he is directed to and looks around at the assorted items that have been gathered there. Beside a large copper pan sit several glass jars of spices, a root of ginger and two slightly dusty bottles of red wine. Harry is just about to ask Draco what he is up to when he is presented with a sharp knife, a little silver grater and a heavy wooden chopping board.  
  
“Petunia used to watch a television programme like this,” he says, frowning when Draco produces a large orange and places it in front of him. “They got people to bring in weird combinations of food and the chefs had to make a meal out of it.”  
  
“We aren’t making a meal. We are making mulled wine,” Draco says, picking up one of the bottles and wiping the dust from it with some ceremony.  
  
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” Harry points out, bewildered.  
  
“I said we were making it, not drinking it,” Draco says. “It’s the fifteenth of December and we are making mulled wine. It’s just the way things are done.”  
  
“Maybe in your house,” Harry says, squeezing the orange until Draco’s expression makes him stop. “I’ve never made mulled wine in my life. What’s so special about today?”  
  
Draco stares at him, and Harry has the impression that no one has ever asked before.  
  
“Well, there are only ten days until Christmas, and...” He pauses, uncertain. “I always do it. My mother usually helps but she isn’t feeling well today. It’s alright if you’d rather not.”  
  
He seems to sag, setting down the wine bottle and regarding the items on the table with quiet confusion.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry says, feeling as though someone has taken wire wool to his heart. “It’s not that I don’t want to help. Sometimes I just get a bit lost when you’re all cloak and dagger about things. You know you can just ask... we’re friends now, aren’t we?”  
  
“Of course,” Draco says fiercely, eyes snapping to Harry’s, and for several aching seconds, neither one of them looks away.  
  
Harry folds first, reaching for the nearest jar and unscrewing it, hiding his roughened breaths in a deep inhalation. The scent of cloves is warm and festive, soothing the ripples inside him until he can look at Draco again.  
  
“I am not cloak and dagger,” he says.  
  
Harry laughs. “I’m afraid you are. But never mind... let’s make mulled wine.”  
  
“You think it’s ridiculous,” Draco says, and Harry can’t decide whether he is asking a question or not.  
  
“It’s a tradition,” he says, examining the blade of the knife and deciding not to test its sharpness on his finger like he does with the ones at home. “Traditions are sometimes bizarre, sometimes completely inexplicable, but they are important. I’m serious, Draco. Whatever you need me to do... I will give it my best shot, okay?”  
  
Draco peers at him for what feels like a long time, expression inscrutable, and then he nods and picks up the copper pan.  
  
“I need the juice from the orange and the zest as well,” he says, carrying the pan over to the range and setting it on top. With a flick of his wand, he sends a number of glass receptacles over to the table. “Then you can peel and slice a couple of inches of that ginger.”  
  
“And what are you going to do?” Harry asks, grinning at Draco when he turns to give him an exasperated look.  
  
“Mulling wine is an art-form, Harry,” he says, spelling water into the pan from his wand. “You get out only what you put in.”  
  
“And what do you put in?” Harry asks, rubbing the orange over the grater and releasing the tangy scent into the air.  
  
“Christmas spirit, of course,” Draco says, tipping in sugar and spices and then turning to see if Harry has finished with the orange.  
  
Harry steps up the pace of his grating. “Brandy?” he guesses. “Whisky?”  
  
“I’ve had enough brandy to last me until the new year after one of Weasley’s muffins,” Draco says, wrinkling his nose. “And no, you idiot, I do not mean alcohol. I mean a sense of the season. Festivity. Making mulled wine is like brewing a potion—you can have all the right ingredients and all the right actions, but if the brewer doesn’t have the right temperament, it won’t turn out properly.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry says, wiping orange zest from his fingers and reaching for the juicer. “That makes sense.”  
  
“But?”  
  
Harry smiles. “But I can’t say I ever expected you to be the embodiment of the Christmas spirit.”  
  
Draco leans against the range and lets out a long breath. “No, I don’t imagine you did. But I like Christmas. It feels hopeful, I suppose.”  
  
“Hope is important,” Harry says, mostly to himself.  
  
He tips the juice into the bowl with the zest and hands it to Draco. Their fingertips brush for the briefest of moments and when Draco turns away, Harry smiles down at the orange pips strewn across his chopping board, heart full. He hasn’t been moved by the Christmas spirit in quite some time, but when Draco fires up the range and fills the kitchen with the warm scents of fruit and spices and sugar, something just a tiny bit festive wakes inside him and he holds onto it, peeling the knobbly ginger root and gazing contentedly at the fire while the rain lashes down around the house and hems them into a little pocket of warmth.  
  
In here, there are no poachers or metal traps, no stiff, formal events or rebellious staff or anxious friends with notebooks and batteries of tests. In here, there is only Draco, and there is no need to worry about what that might mean. Harry knows what it means and he doesn’t want to struggle against it. He wants to let it happen, even though he’s afraid, and perhaps because he’s afraid. He looks at Draco and knows that everything is right there in his eyes, even when he is looking back at Harry and silently urging him to get on with slicing the fucking ginger.  
  
Harry smiles and hurries to finish, passing the bowl to Draco and leaning back in his chair. He listens to the bubbling of the mixture as it reduces down to a fragrant syrup and watches Draco moving around the kitchen, pulling things down from shelves and flinging mysterious ingredients into the pan until the steam begins to glimmer in the soft light.  
  
“What was that?” Harry asks at last.  
  
“That was a secret.”  
  
“I’ve heard that before.”  
  
Draco snorts. “Yes, well. I mean it this time. This recipe comes from my grandmother—my father’s mother—and I truly believe she would rise from the dead to punish me if I shared it.”  
  
“It’s probably not worth it, then,” Harry says.  
  
“No. My mother once said that this recipe was the only decent thing to come out of that side of the family,” Draco says, stirring slowly. “Of course, she was in an extremely bad mood when she said that, but I think she had a point.”  
  
“I’m sorry she’s not feeling well,” Harry says, unwilling to comment on the value of the Malfoy family in general.  
  
“It’s nothing serious, but she will be upset about missing this,” Draco says. He glances at Harry over his shoulder. “She’s definitely more efficient with a knife, but I appreciate your help. Your company.”  
  
Feeling his skin heat, Harry rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m sure you have plenty of that already.”  
  
Draco lets out a small huff of amusement as he opens the bottles of wine and pours them slowly into the pan.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, I have some wonderful people around me, but sometimes, with my mother and Sandrine and Wilhelmina...”  
  
Harry laughs, understanding. “Too many women?”  
  
“I love them all, Harry,” Draco says, eyes flicking to the door as though checking to make sure that his mother isn’t standing there with her army of cats. “But it’s possible to feel a little outnumbered.”  
  
“Yeah. I imagine so.”  
  
“And now, of course, I seem to have acquired Hermione,” Draco says, apparently thinking out loud. “I have the strangest feeling that she has made a decision to insinuate herself into my life and that’s somehow the end of the matter.”  
  
Harry shrugs, amused. “Probably. Don’t you think it’s strange that you call her Hermione but Ron is still ‘Weasley’?”  
  
“No,” Draco says easily. “I call Hermione by her first name because I spent a long time calling her something abhorrent and I made a conscious effort to change that.”  
  
“After the war,” Harry says, mostly to himself.  
  
Draco looks over his shoulder at him for a moment. “Long before it was over. It was one of many promises I made to myself when I was sitting out in those woods, in fact. Weasley is Weasley because he has always been Weasley, because it suits him and because I think he will probably call me ‘Malfoy’ until the end of time.”  
  
“Maybe,” Harry says. “You could always be the first one to break.”  
  
Draco stops stirring for a moment. “Must you put it like that?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry says. “Yes, I must. And if you’ve finished testing my knife skills, I’m going to start trying to redraw this schematic.”  
  
“Your knife skills were adequate,” Draco says, and Harry decides to take that as approval for him to pull out his pencils and parchments and measuring instruments.  
  
He has just begun to construct the basic framework of his diagram when a gust of cold wind whisks down the chimney and sends all of his loose leaves skittering over the table top. Harry shivers, watching the harassed flickering of the fire for a moment and feeling grateful to be inside. He thinks of the recovering animals in their warm pens and then of the peacocks and squirrels who are no doubt tucked away under bushes and hedges, sheltering from the elements.  
  
“Does Harold have somewhere to sleep?” he mumbles, waving his wand vaguely and gathering his lost parchments back into his hand.  
  
Draco turns from the range. “What?”  
  
“Harold,” he says, seized by the image of the inept pheasant shivering in the rain somewhere. “And Peter and Chase... where do they sleep?”  
  
“Wherever they like,” Draco says. “Why?”  
  
Harry opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again. He has been wondering about what he can give Draco for Christmas for a little while now, and he thinks he may just have had a rather good idea. His ability to build a full-size, bigger-on-the-inside shed might be restricted at the moment, but there’s nothing to say that he can’t knock up something smaller—perhaps just big enough for a duck, a Puffskein and an accident prone pheasant.  
  
Smiling to himself, he starts to sketch. Draco continues to stir for a minute or two and then asks:  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“It’s a secret.”  
  
Draco sighs. “A real one?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry says, guarding his sketchbook with his arm.  
  
“You don’t get any mulled wine, then,” Draco declares, switching off the burner underneath the pan and turning to Harry with folded arms.  
  
“You don’t mean that.”  
  
“I suppose you did help,” Draco says grudgingly. He pauses. “Do you think half past ten is too early to try it?”  
  
Harry closes his sketchbook and meets Draco’s eyes. “Definitely not.”


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Sixteenth of December – Festive table decoration**  
  
  
  
The rain slants into the portico and splashes against Harry’s bare arms as he moves slowly from one end to the other and then back again, gritting his teeth with the effort of keeping his steps in rhythm with his crutches and himself upright. He barely notices the stinging little droplets until he pauses to give his hands and armpits a break, and when he does, he relishes the cold water against his heated skin.  
  
After three days of experience, he is still finding movement on crutches rather gruelling, but he is determined not to let the fucking things beat him, and now that his building plans have been rained off, he is taking advantage of the vast stone shelter to sneak in some practise.  
  
He knows that Draco is watching him from the moment that he steps out from the entrance hall, but he doesn’t stop until he has completed his circuit of the portico.  
  
“What are you doing?” Draco asks, amusement clear in his voice.  
  
“Trying to learn a new skill,” Harry mutters, leaning back against the cold stone and letting his crutches slide to the floor. His eyes slide to Draco’s and he smiles. “Plus, it’s Hermione’s night to cook tonight and I might want to make a quick getaway.”  
  
Draco’s mouth flickers at one corner. “It can’t be that bad, surely.”  
  
“I’ll let you judge that for yourself. It’s only a matter of time before they invite you over, and Ron only cooks about half of the time,” Harry says. “I don’t know why she insists on doing it. She doesn’t seem to enjoy it, and the things she makes are... well, they’re not too good.”  
  
“Typical Gryffindor recalcitrance,” Draco offers, leaning against the doorframe and mirroring Harry’s posture. His eyes are warm and intense and all Harry can do is pull a childish face at him.  
  
“I think she hates the thought of not doing her bit,” he says after a moment.  
  
Draco’s eyebrow flickers. “Don’t they ever come to your house for dinner? Can you cook? Does that kitchen of yours ever even get used?”  
  
Something wriggles guiltily in Harry’s stomach and he frowns at the raindrops slamming against the nearest stone pillar. “I do use my kitchen, mostly for making coffee and pieces of toast, but yes, I can cook, and no, they haven’t been to my house for dinner in a long time,” he admits.  
  
“Why not?” Draco asks.  
  
Harry sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s easier for them to stay at home with Rose... maybe because my house feels like no one actually lives in it? It’s not as though I don’t want visitors. It’s just been... it’s been weird, and I don’t think I even realised it until now.”  
  
“You haven’t given yourself time to realise anything,” Draco says, and his voice is softer than Harry thinks he deserves.  
  
“You’re right,” he sighs, lifting his hands to rub at his face. He can feel the edges of a headache pressing in on him and he forces himself to relax his shoulders, take a long, deep breath of the cool, damp air, and let his hands drop to his sides. Draco is watching him, all concern and understanding and composure. “I’m going to make dinner for them tonight,” Harry says suddenly. “And you, if you like. I’m going to make my house look like my house and then I’m going to make something nice and you’re all going to eat it. What do you think of that?”  
  
Draco’s smile reaches all the way to his eyes. “I think that sounds like a good idea. And I accept your invitation, even if it is at extremely short notice.”  
  
“Hey, it was your idea,” Harry says, grinning. “You should have thought of it earlier if you wanted more notice.”  
  
“Oddly enough, when I suggested it, I didn’t realise you were going to rush off and make it happen immediately,” Draco says.  
  
Harry laughs, and the sound reverberates around the empty portico. “Remind me again how long we’ve known each other?” he teases. “I was always going to do that. In fact, that is exactly what I’m going to do. Right now.”  
  
“Now?” Draco asks, eyebrows shooting up under his hair.  
  
“Yes.” Harry picks up his rucksack, shrugs into it and then retrieves his crutches. “It’s been throwing it down all morning; I’m hardly going to get any building done, and you’ve already told me you’re bored stiff because Sandrine’s not here and there’s nothing that needs to be done with the animals.”  
  
“And if you go, I’ll be even more bored,” Draco says irritably, and then brightens. “But I suppose that if you’re going to cook for me, I can struggle through.”  
  
Harry laughs. “Good. I’ll see you at six.”  
  
He turns to Disapparate and Malfoy Manor whips out from under him to be replaced by the slick cobbles of Diagon Alley. For a split second, Harry is certain he is going to fall; there are flailing crutches seemingly everywhere and there is no way he is going to regain his balance, but then there is a steadying hand on his shoulder and the wobbling stops. Stomach still swooping unpleasantly, Harry turns to thank his rescuer, only to find a tiny old lady peering up at him from underneath a violently striped bobble hat.  
  
“Careful, love, you’ll do yourself a mischief,” she murmurs, squeezing his shoulder and tottering away before Harry can even begin to wonder how such a frail little person has managed to keep him on his feet.  
  
He watches the crowds carefully before plunging in on his crutches and making his way to the butcher’s shop. His last visit to Diagon Alley and the resulting panic are still fresh in his mind, and though he controls his breathing as best he can, he can feel his anxiety rising as the hordes of Christmas shoppers press in around him. Fortunately, the butcher’s shop is quiet, and he is able to spend as long as he likes considering and then rejecting various types and cuts of meat. The butcher himself is friendly and seems happy to help Harry choose four thick sirloin steaks for his impromptu dinner party, as well as offering all sorts of advice on how best to prepare them.  
  
By the time he leaves the shop and heads back into the crowds, Harry is calmer, stronger somehow, and he feels rather excited as he buys vegetables, spices, and elderberry wine to accompany his steaks. When he visits a homewares shop to stock up on cleaning products, his eye is caught by their display of Christmas decorations. Impulsively, he picks up several strings of little white lights and an elaborate table decoration made of glimmering white and silver baubles arranged in a rough pyramid and lashed together with a strand of tiny magical stars. He doesn’t think he has ever bought anything so frivolous before but it is beautiful and he wants it and he opts to take it to the till and pay for it before he changes his mind.  
  
When he gets back to Number Twelve, he scrubs at his wet hair and skin with a rough towel and then sits down to owl Ron and Hermione about the change of plans. Rose can, of course, come with them, and though Harry doubts she will be interested in his steaks, he knows that her favourite food in the world is mushrooms on toast, and he has picked out a couple of particularly good-looking field mushrooms just for her.  
  
He receives Hermione’s enthusiastic acceptance as he is working his way through a pile of incomprehensible paperwork on his living room floor. He smiles when he reads that she is looking forward to seeing Draco and updating him on her poacher hunt, and then he looks around the living room again and forces himself back to work.  
  
As the rain continues to hammer against the window panes and the sky begins to darken, Harry pushes on, sorting and organising until his living room, kitchen and hallway are clear of clutter. The whole operation feels rather cathartic, and he is able to vanish whole stacks of things he had previously thought vital to his existence. By the time he starts to sweep and polish, he is humming to himself and, despite his crutches, having a pretty good time.  
  
It’s just a start, he tells himself, thinking of the many other rooms that need just as much attention, but a start is more than he expected and more than he has allowed himself to have in a long time. With the fire roaring in the grate and the air fresh with the scent of wood polish, the kitchen is clean and warm at last and Harry prepares his sauce and vegetables in a little haze of contentment.  
  
He is eager for Draco to see that his house—or at least some of it—does not always look quite so unloved, for Draco, Ron and Hermione to share a meal for the first time, for Draco to hear all of Hermione’s news about his poachers, for Draco to... just for Draco, he supposes, smiling to himself and stopping his knife just before it runs out of carrot and moves on to his finger.  
  
With the vegetables roasting in the oven, the wine breathing and the sauce made, Harry sets his table with almost-matching cutlery, his best plates, and his new festive centrepiece. He returns from his shower, damp and dressed in a smart shirt and intact jeans, to find Draco’s head in the fire.  
  
“Sorry, have you been waiting long?” he asks, grabbing his crutches and manoeuvring himself across the floor to the fireplace.  
  
“No,” Draco says, and the look on his face makes Harry’s heart sink. “I’m afraid I can’t come over for dinner, which smells wonderful, by the way.”  
  
“No problem,” Harry says, keeping his tone light despite the disappointment squirming in his chest.  
  
To his surprise, Draco’s regret seems just as acute, and he isn’t doing a particularly good job of hiding it.  
  
“It’s my mother,” he says, and Harry suddenly feels selfish and silly.  
  
“Is she okay?”  
  
“Yesterday, when I said she wasn’t feeling well—it was her anxiety. She was having a bad day, and this afternoon she had a small meltdown,” Draco says. “She’s going to be fine but she’s very unsettled at the moment and I don’t want to leave her. I hope you aren’t too upset with me.”  
  
“Of course not,” Harry says, concern and relief merging inside him and making him feel slightly unsteady. “Go and be with your mother. I’m sure Ron will find room for your steak.”  
  
Draco groans. “Now you’re just torturing me. I’m going to go before you tell me that Hermione is going to drink my wine and Rose is going to eat my dessert.”  
  
“Of course not. See you tomorrow,” Harry says.  
  
Draco nods and then is gone. Feeling deflated, Harry looks over at his beautifully set table. The centrepiece is glowing in the firelight, casting strange, twisted shadows over the cloth and crockery. The steaks are laid out, ready to be cooked, and the roasting vegetables are filling the entire ground floor with their delicious herby aroma. His house looks better than it has in years. Draco Malfoy loves his mother. All is not lost.  
  
When Ron, Hermione and Rose arrive, they are so staggered by the transformation of Harry’s living room and hallway that they have to be persuaded down to the kitchen, where the whole process of inspection and astonished muttering can start again.  
  
“Uncle Harry, it’s nice in here,” Rose says, sounding so surprised that Harry thinks he should be offended.  
  
Instead, he laughs and ruffles her bright red hair. “Thank you, Rose. That’s because I tidied it.”  
  
“If you tidied your bedroom sometimes, it might look like this,” Hermione says and Rose gasps.  
  
“Mummy, I am always tidying my bedroom. It’s not my fault that sometimes it untidies itself again.”  
  
Hermione sighs and accepts a glass of elderberry wine from Harry. “Thank you. It really does look wonderful in here.”  
  
“I thought we were late... where’s Malfoy?” Ron asks, looking around as though expecting Draco to spring out of one of Harry’s cupboards.  
  
“He couldn’t make it,” Harry says, explaining the situation as he pours drinks for Ron, Rose, and himself.  
  
“I was really looking forward to telling him about all the progress I’ve made,” Hermione says, frowning and then recovering herself. “Never mind. I’ll tell you and then you can tell him. The important thing is, we are definitely getting somewhere.”  
  
“That’s great,” Harry says, waiting until they are all settled around the table and then hopping across to the oven to check on the vegetables. “Draco’s developed the photographs.”  
  
“How are they?” Hermione asks.  
  
Harry glances back at Rose, who is completely absorbed in examining the centrepiece. “Grim,” he says with feeling. “There’s no doubt that the trap caused the injuries when you look at them side by side.”  
  
“They’re not moving, are they?” Ron asks.  
  
“The photographs?” Harry laughs. “No. Just your run-of-the-mill, completely non-moving photographs. We don’t want to scare the Muggles, do we?”  
  
“I don’t know... Draco might,” Ron says, and Hermione shoots him a sharp look. “Not like that,” he continues, eyes appealing when he looks at Harry. “I just meant that he likes winding people up, you know?”  
  
“I know,” Harry says, but Ron seems unconvinced.  
  
“I mean, he’s changed loads... not just since those days but recently. He seems different now. More like a normal person, though he’s obviously still _Malfoy_ , and he seems to like you. Maybe that’s why he’s so... I’m going to stop talking now,” Ron says, noticing that both Harry and Hermione are staring at him and opting to gulp at his wine instead.  
  
“Ron’s right, of course,” Hermione says after a moment. “He has changed, and even more dramatically since the two of you started spending so much time together. I think you’re good for each other.”  
  
Harry turns back to the oven, embarrassed by their candour, and rearranges the steaks on their tray.  
  
“Well, he’s always been sort of hovering in the background, hasn’t he?” Ron says, breaking his self-imposed silence after less than a minute.  
  
“In the background of what?” Harry asks, turning to him.  
  
“Of your life,” Ron says grandly, gesturing with his wineglass. “And now he’s up there at the front like... I don’t know, a dog or a wooden cart with hay in it. You know what I mean.”  
  
“Someone has to,” Hermione says, but she is smiling, and suddenly, so is Harry.  
  
He doesn’t need to have a long, drawn-out discussion about Draco with his two best friends. He doesn’t need to explain, because they are already there, right behind him with love and support and strange metaphors about art that don’t really make sense.  
  
Letting out a slow, careful breath, he turns back to the stove. “How do people want their steaks cooked?”  
  
“Medium, please,” Hermione says.  
  
“I’ll have mine medium-rare,” Ron says. “And if you need someone to eat Malfoy’s steak, I’m willing.”  
  
Harry smiles, turning on the heat under the griddle.  
  
“I don’t like steak, Uncle Harry. I’m sorry to be rude but it’s weird,” Rose pipes up.  
  
“What about these?” Harry asks, holding up the field mushrooms to his eyes and making the scariest face he can, which causes Rose to giggle so hard that Hermione has to pat her on the back to stop her from choking.  
  
“Do you think she’s alright?” he asks when Rose scuttles off to the bathroom. He drops his and Hermione’s steaks onto the griddle and listens with satisfaction to the hiss of meat against hot metal.  
  
“Of course. She’s just got a very small bladder,” Hermione says blithely, sipping her wine.  
  
Harry laughs. “No, I mean... it’s going to sound stupid now, but I was worried she might be disappointed that I haven’t taken her out much lately. I don’t want her to think that I’m not a good uncle, I suppose.”  
  
“Bloody hell,” Ron says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. She hasn’t stopped talking about Malfoy Manor since we got back from there—it’s all ‘Draco’s farm this’ and ‘Draco’s farm that’ and ‘Daddy, did you see that bird running after me?’”  
  
Hermione nods. “She loved that, Harry, and she loves everything you do with her but she’s not going to remember all the theme parks and museums and things when she’s older... she’s going to remember you reading to her or going to the park with her or taking her to a place where she could feed a baby pig. You really have to stop worrying. She loves you.”  
  
“She’s right,” Ron says. “I know it’s not exactly the same thing, but when I think about my Grandma, I think about baking cakes and playing Exploding Snap. I’m sure we did all sorts of things with her, but that’s the stuff I remember. Just normal stuff, you know.”  
  
Harry turns the steaks in a thoughtful silence. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “I don’t have any memories like that.”  
  
“Sorry, Harry,” Hermione says softly.  
  
“Don’t be,” he says. “It’s not anyone’s fault. I think the problem is that I’ve got this twisted concept of the way everything should be and I’m only just realising it.”  
  
“Now that’s your age,” Hermione says, and Harry turns to regard her sternly. “I can say what I like. I’m almost a whole year older than you.”  
  
“Mummy is really old,” Rose announces, running into the room and beaming at Harry. “Mummy is the oldest and then Daddy and then me.”  
  
“What about Harry?” Ron asks, amused.  
  
“Uncle Harry is the same as me only a tiny bit older,” Rose says, crawling onto her seat and wriggling when she sees that Harry is cooking her mushrooms.  
  
“I will take that,” Harry says, grabbing a tea towel and bending to pull the tray of vegetables out of the oven.  
  
“I definitely look younger,” Ron mumbles.  
  
Harry grins and stirs his sauce, stomach beginning to grumble as he looks over the elements of his meal and inhales the warm scents of perfectly-cooked meat, butter, black pepper and thyme. When he finds himself surrounded by Hermione’s humming colours, he decides to let her get on with it. She can check and she can scribble; she can do whatever she likes. Ron can eat two massive steaks and Rose can dissect her food any way she wants. Draco can look after his mother and Harry will see him in the morning, just like always.  
  
He serves his friends heaped plates and sits down with them to eat, basking first in their compliments and then in the contented silence that settles over the table, broken only by the soft clink of metal on ceramic and the crunch of enthusiastic little teeth on buttered toast. He feels Draco’s absence keenly but the sensation isn’t actually unpleasant, and his life suddenly feels full in a new way.  
  
He has spent far too long making himself lonely, and now he wonders how he ever thought that these people would allow the situation to continue. The thought catches him somewhere rather sore and he sighs, picking up his wine glass and sniffing at the contents.  
  
_Ah, yes_ , he thinks, inhaling the sharp sweetness and picturing himself in a glittering ballroom with an arch, monochrome Draco at his side. _Notes of pirate’s beard and Pensieve polish with just the tiniest hint of a rainy February morning when the coffee has run out and the cat’s been sick on the carpet._  
  
“What are you smirking at?” Ron asks, and Harry turns to him, almost surprised to see him there.  
  
“Nothing. What do you think of the wine?”


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Seventeenth of December – An outdoor tree with lights**   
  


“I’m glad your mother’s feeling better,” Harry says, leaning back in the old armchair to watch Narcissa out of sight.

He balances the cup of tea she has brought him on the arm of the chair, keeping it clear of Briana, who is nesting in a tartan blanket on his lap and snuffling curiously at the air.

“She is,” Draco agrees, and he sips from his own cup before setting it down on the ground and continuing his task of sweeping out the badger pen, vanishing the old bedding and replacing it with clean, dry stuff from a large sack. “Sometimes a good night’s sleep can be incredibly restorative.”

“Yeah,” Harry says vehemently. He has slept more soundly in the last week or so than he has since the end of the war, and he suspects that was more due to exhaustion than anything else.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” Draco sighs. “But still, it sounds as though Hermione is closing in on the poachers. If I were them, I’d be very worried indeed.”

Harry smiles at Draco’s back. His thick green jumper rides up each time he bends, revealing a stripe of pale skin and a leather belt with an unusual spidery pattern scratched into it.

“She seems to have narrowed it down to a handful of addresses. Shame we can’t just set one of the hogglers on the job,” he says, and Draco laughs.

“You’re obsessed, do you know that?” he says without turning around. “Apart from anything else, we don’t want to confuse poor Melissa any more than necessary by borrowing one of her little ones as well as putting Briana in with her. She’ll think we’re trying to swap piglets on her.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Harry admits.

“No, because you’re always in such a rush,” Draco says, turning to meet Harry’s eyes. “Aren’t you?” he adds, and the words are so soft that they are only just audible, but Harry feels them all over his body.

He doesn’t need to say anything because Draco knows and he knows and yet here they are, staring at each other across the courtyard, lashed together by longing but held back by something else—something gentle and breathless that keeps Harry in his chair, one hand wrapped around his hot cup and one threaded into Briana’s warm fur, something heavy and knowing and wonderful.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says at last, and his words are scratchy but Draco’s smile is electric.

He shakes his head and turns back to his task, closing up the badger pen and moving on to the injured fox. Harry drags his eyes away from him and looks down at Briana. She looks back up at him with gleaming dark eyes and then starts to chew on the hem of his jumper. He lets her. It’s an old one, and besides, if all goes well this morning, this might be the last time he gets to hold her. Melissa is recovering well; she no longer has to be kept unconscious and is now reclining happily in her pen and nosing around her piglets with clear pride. Briana is growing rapidly and Harry has the feeling that if Melissa accepts her, she will catch up to her new siblings in no time.

“I’ll miss looking after you,” he says, stroking Briana’s ridge of white fur into a quiff and then flattening it again. “I’m not very good at sitting down and doing nothing, but you’ve made it a lot easier.”

Briana lets go of his jumper and presses her fluttering snout to the palm of his hand. Harry smiles, feeling a rush of love for her that is sharp and bittersweet.

“Your mother was very brave,” he says. “She fought really hard to bring you to us. I’m pretty sure she’d be proud of how big you’ve grown.”

“Sandrine says she’s big for her age,” Draco says, and Harry is mildly surprised to realise that he’s been listening.

Briana grunts softly and noses in the folds of Harry’s jumper. “I think she’s hungry.”

“Probably.” Draco brushes his hands off on his trousers and comes over to peer down at the little pig. “She hasn’t had a bottle yet this morning. We thought it would be better if she was hungry when she went in—that way we can see straight away if Melissa is going to let her feed.”

Harry nods, noticing that Draco’s face is set and his posture is rather purposeful.

“Are you going to put her in now?”

“Yes. I think we should.”

Harry gathers Briana to him in her blanket and presses his face to her velvety ears. “Good luck,” he whispers and then passes her into Draco’s arms.

He cannot hear what Draco is saying to the little pig as he carries her over to her new home, but his face is so serious and Harry can feel himself falling further with each murmured word. It’s a slow slide, unhurried but inexorable, and he finds himself wondering pointlessly just when he stopped trying to hold on. He had always thought that falling in love would be like a lightning strike, sudden and violent and terrifying, but being with Draco doesn’t feel that way at all. This thing that hangs between them these days is a warm glimmer creeping through his veins, wrapping around his heart and making him smile at absolutely nothing. It is more certain than any feeling he has ever experienced, and yet the idea of stumbling across that courtyard and saying so in actual words seems like something he will never know how to do.

But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s not in a rush. Perhaps Draco is challenging him to a game of patience, and he has never been able to pass up one of Draco’s challenges.

“Harry,” Draco whispers, and he shakes himself.

“Is it time?” he asks, setting his cup on the flags and hopping over to Melissa’s pen without bothering to pick up his crutches.

Draco nods. Quietly, he opens the door and places Briana on the new, clean bedding. They watch, barely breathing, as she looks around her new environment. Finally, she seems to notice the other piglets, who are sucking noisily at Melissa’s teats and paying her no attention at all. Briana hesitates only for a moment before hurrying to join them, attaching herself to a spare teat and settling down to feed. Melissa looks up slowly, little dark eyes focusing on the interloper, and Draco’s fingers wrap around Harry’s forearm. He swallows hard, keeping his attention on Briana.

After almost a minute of tense silence, Melissa lets out a sound that Harry has never heard before, a soft, rhythmic series of grunts that seem to ricochet around the pen and cause the ground beneath their feet to vibrate. He looks at Draco, startled, but he just smiles.

“That’s the sound they make to welcome new piglets to their drifts,” he says quietly. “It means she’s been accepted.”

Harry lets out a long breath and grins, gazing down into the pen and watching Briana getting acquainted with her new family. Draco doesn’t let go of his arm.

**~*~**

That night, Harry cooks himself a proper meal in his tidy kitchen and eats it at the table. Afterwards, he makes a pot of tea and finishes his plans for what he is calling the ‘mini-shed’, where Harold, Chase and Peter will be able to sleep and take shelter from the harsher aspects of the British winter. Following a long, hot bath, he opts for an early night. The lady on the WWN has predicted bright, cold weather for tomorrow, and in the absence of rain, Harry has decided to take his power tools to the Manor with him. If nothing else, they should amuse Draco, he thinks, and with the thought of Malfoy versus electric drill, he falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

He twitches awake to find the bedroom swathed in darkness, and is puzzled to discover that he has been asleep for barely four hours. His muscles are tight, his mind wide awake, as though ready to spring into action, and it takes him a moment to realise that he is holding himself stiffly against the mattress, poised to take on some imaginary attacker. With some effort, he slows his breathing and relaxes each muscle group in turn, but his mind is racing and nothing he tries seems to have any effect.

What he could really do with is some fresh air, perhaps a bit of a walk, but it’s two o’clock in the morning, so... _so what?_ he thinks, scowling at the ceiling. He’s a grown up person, this is his house, and if he wants to go for a walk at two o’clock in the morning then why the hell shouldn’t he?

“Ha,” Harry mutters, feeling rebellious as he throws back his covers and lowers his weight onto his right foot.

He dresses in the dark, pulling on soft, slouchy trousers and a knitted, zip-up jacket with a hood before shoving his glasses on his nose and making his way downstairs. With one foot in an old trainer and the other wriggling in its cast, he sets out on his crutches. The night is cold and quiet, and Harry finds himself looking around to check that no one is following him. It’s unlikely, but perhaps some mugger might pick him out as an easy target, and if they do, it isn’t as though he’ll be able to run away. That being said, his crutches are surprisingly heavy and would probably make excellent weapons.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to test that theory. The streets are deserted and the only sounds are those of the cars in the distance and the clomp, clomp, clomp of Harry’s crutches against the pavement. He turns onto the long street that runs parallel to Grimmauld Place, where the houses all have large bay windows and little front gardens with neat hedges. Many of these are now dressed for Christmas with fairy lights and glittering statues of reindeer, and Harry pauses outside each house to admire the displays. In the last garden on the street, a tree has been draped with decorations, its naked branches made warm and festive by hundreds of beautiful white lights. In the darkness, the effect is quite dazzling, and Harry stares at it until he can no longer feel his toes.

He lets out a wisp of breath and watches it dissipate in the night sky, wondering if he should break the cycle of the last few years and buy himself a bloody Christmas tree. He has lights now, and a shiny, pointed thing on his table that could be a small tree if he were to squint, but it’s not the same and he knows it.

Ron and Hermione’s tree is enormous and wears so many baubles, sweets and candles that it always looks in danger of collapse. He hasn’t seen Molly and Arthur’s effort yet, but he knows it will be loaded with magical snow and enough flashing lights to give him a headache. Sandrine has a camera phone and has shown Harry several pictures of a punk-inspired tree that she and her husband have dressed with oversized safety pins and an artfully rusted, multicoloured star. Draco has his coloured lights, and he has now unearthed another set and wrapped it around the fir tree that grows next to the clinic. Even Narcissa has a Christmas tree. According to Draco, she ‘hates dead things’, so her tree is not a natural one but a vast, stylised cone sculpted from copper and iron. It dominates the entrance hall, sitting between the two staircases, dripping in long, ethereal baubles and points of pure white light.

The trouble is, he’s still hardly ever at home, and it seems a waste of effort and tree for something he isn’t going to see. He doesn’t want to waste things any more, not when he thinks he might finally be starting to understand what he has been missing.

Harry inhales the cold night air and gives the lights on the tree one more glance before he wheels around on his crutches and heads for home. The world is sleeping, and soon, he will be, too.


	18. Chapten Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Eighteenth of December – Robin on a bird table**  
  
  
  
As Harry kneels on his kitchen floor, head in a musty cupboard and hands braced against the freezing tiles, the smell of bacon begins to drift mockingly through the gaps in the old window frames. He groans and steps up his search for something resembling breakfast. Now that he is starting to feel hungry in the mornings, his usual vat of coffee just doesn’t cut it, but so far his rummaging has failed to turn up anything more appetising than two slices of rock-hard bread and a selection of dried up condiments.  
  
“Shopping,” he mutters to himself, giving up on the cupboard and sitting back with his plastered leg at an awkward angle. “If you want the food, you have to buy the food. That’s just the way it is.”  
  
The flames in the fireplace turn green and Harry finds himself at eye level with a concerned-looking Ron.  
  
“Are you alright? Did you fall?” he asks, taking in Harry’s sprawl and irritable expression.  
  
“I’m fine, Ron,” Harry promises, smiling at his friend. “I’m just deploring my lack of breakfast food.”  
  
If anything, Ron’s expression becomes graver. “Do you want me to send some bacon through?”  
  
Harry laughs and leans back on his hands. “No, thanks, but I appreciate the offer. Everything okay?”  
  
“Yeah, but it won’t be if Hermione sees you off those crutches,” Ron says.  
  
“I’m not off them, I’m just...” Harry sighs, casting a guilty glance at the crutches, which are leaning against the wall and have not been used since the previous night’s outing. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we?”  
  
“Will do, mate,” Ron says. “Listen, I need to tell you something. We were at Mum and Dad’s last night and... well, it turns out that Mum wants you to bring Draco with you when you come for lunch on Sunday.”  
  
Astonished, Harry says nothing for several seconds and Ron gazes at him appealingly through the flames.  
  
“You’ve got to at least ask him,” he says. “She’s dead set on it for some reason.”  
  
“How does she even know that we’re...?” Harry asks, unsure of just how to finish that sentence and deciding not to bother.  
  
“Rose,” Ron admits. “She’s been going on about the Manor for days, and she didn’t know it was a secret.”  
  
“It’s not a secret,” Harry says. “I’m not sure what it is. These last few weeks have felt like... you know when your quilt gets all crumpled on the bed and you pick it up by the corners and shake it out?”  
  
Ron nods. “Yeah?”  
  
“And it takes a moment for the whole thing to settle, and the creases have been smoothed out but you can still see where they’ve been, and you find little patterns and bits of stitching you’d forgotten were there because it’s been squashed up for so long?” Harry continues, picking up and shaking an imaginary quilt in the air.  
  
Ron laughs. “You’re getting worse than me,” he says. “Hermione says my metaphors are spiders because they always get away from me.”  
  
“Isn’t that... also a metaphor?” Harry asks, amused.  
  
“Don’t ask me to explain the things she says,” Ron says, grinning. “I think I do know what you mean, and I think everyone—including Mum—is glad that Malfoy finally decided to shake out your quilt.”  
  
Face heating, Harry buries his laughter in his hands. “Please, for the love of god, don’t say that anywhere near Draco,” he mumbles.  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate,” Ron says, and Harry can hear the smile in his voice. “So, here’s a thing that Hermione told me not to ask you—what’s the official line here? Are you still just friends or are you...?”  
  
“Shaking each other’s quilts?” Harry supplies, meeting Ron’s eyes and feeling his heart give a resounding thump at the easy, affectionate approval that he finds there.  
  
“Yeah,” Ron says, and Harry can see his blush even through the fire.  
  
“We’re just friends,” he says.  
  
“For now.”  
  
Harry nods, and the warm weight of inevitability shifts in the pit of his stomach. “For now.”  
  
Ron frowns suddenly. “Yes, I’m asking him!” he shouts to someone beyond the fireplace. “Of course I didn’t... are you eating my toast?” He looks at Harry and shakes his head. “I’ve got to go. Don’t forget to have breakfast,” he instructs, and then withdraws from the flames, leaving Harry alone with the smell of someone else’s bacon and the feeling that Sunday is going to be very interesting indeed.  
  
**~*~**  
  
“But why?” Draco asks for the seventh time, or perhaps it’s the eighth.  
  
Harry has stopped counting now and is concentrating on putting the rubber feet of his crutches down firmly against the icy path. His power tools, though shrunken to fit in his rucksack, are still heavy against his back, and as they approach the building site, most of his attention is going into staying upright.  
  
Harry sighs. He wonders if Draco knows that he is still following him along the path rather than stopping at the recovery pens like he usually does.  
  
“Because she wants to,” he says again. “They both want to. They’re nice people and—”  
  
“I never said they weren’t nice people,” Draco interrupts.  
  
“I know you didn’t. But they _are_ nice people and they’re my family and they want to spend some time with you because they know you’re... important to me,” Harry finishes, feeling idiotic.  
  
Draco makes a pleased little sound and then exhales forcefully. “They want to vet me.”  
  
Harry snorts. “I’m not going to rule it out.”  
  
“Good grief,” Draco mutters. “So many Weasleys.”  
  
“Yep,” Harry says brightly. “Lots and lots of Weasleys. You’ll love it. And the food is brilliant and there are some very interesting ducks on the pond behind their house and I think I should have a reward for wearing this sodding thing for almost a whole week.”  
  
“I should have a shed,” Draco counters, but when Harry looks at him, his eyes are bright with humour. “What sort of ducks?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry says, tasting victory. “Fancy ones. You’ll have to see for yourself.”  
  
“I suppose I will,” Draco says, and while Harry unpacks his tools and restores them to their proper sizes, he pokes at the framework of the shed and asks countless questions about timings, Weasley family etiquette and whether or not he needs to wear dress robes.  
  
“It’s Sunday lunch, Draco,” Harry laughs. “If you turn up in dress robes, they’ll think you’ve come to give a performance or something.”  
  
“I do not perform,” Draco says, picking up an electric screwdriver and fiddling with it until the battery pack falls out. “Oh. I didn’t expect that to happen.”  
  
Harry retrieves the pack and clicks it back into the screwdriver. “Don’t worry, you didn’t hurt it.”  
  
Draco sets the screwdriver down and picks up the drill, weighing it in his hands and inspecting its orange plastic casing.  
  
“Could I have a go?” he asks, eyebrows lifted hopefully.  
  
Harry nods. “Okay, but I’d better put up some silencing charms. That thing is pretty loud and I don’t want to frighten the animals.”  
  
Absorbed in his examination of the drill, Draco doesn’t answer, so Harry leaves him to it and hobbles slowly around the site, stopping every few feet to cast a wall of silencing charms. As he closes the glimmering circle, he pauses to watch the tiny birds hopping about on their feeding table, pecking at seeds and then fluttering away into the trees to eat them.  
  
“You could watch them from here,” he says impulsively, and Draco looks up.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The birds... if we put a window into the shed in the right place, you could sit in there and watch them with a magnifying charm. I bet they’d be more confident if they didn’t know you were there. You could put up more tables... with different sorts of food on them... and then you could watch and see what sort of food they like best. It’d be really interesting.”  
  
“Have you ever even noticed that bird table before?” Draco asks, apparently amused.  
  
Harry scrubs at his hair and shrugs. “Not really. But I’m getting better at noticing things.”  
  
Draco smiles slowly. “Alright. Let’s put a window in it.”  
  
“Brilliant,” Harry says, watching a robin land on the table and then turning back to Draco. “I’ve got loads of ideas that I didn’t put in the original plan. Let me show you what to do with that drill.”  
  
When Draco nods, Harry steps close and explains how the drill works, taking Draco’s cold hands and demonstrating the correct way to hold it, the importance of selecting the appropriate bit, and the pressure required to make a hole, depending on the material. The icy wind whips up around them, whisking Draco’s hair into his eyes and filling Harry’s nostrils with the clean scent of citrus. Heart racing, he grabs a spare piece of wood and hands it to Draco, watching with hands wrapped tightly around his crutches as the drill shudders into action.  
  
Draco’s first few attempts are halting and several times he manages to get the drill bit stuck in the wood, but before long, he is drilling gleefully, making a neat line of holes and then carefully removing the bit and starting all over again with a larger one. Harry watches him, caught between longing and amusement, flicking glances at the half-built framework and imagining how it will look when it is finally finished. Now that he knows Draco better, his plans have refined themselves to suit him, and he pictures the completed project with satisfaction. Perhaps there will be a built-in seat at the new window, a tiny kitchen, a transparent ceiling like Mrs Cobb’s.  
  
The sound of the drill grinds to a halt and Draco stands back to admire his work.  
  
“I have drilled a hundred holes,” he announces. “Now I need a hundred screws to go in them.”  
  
Harry laughs. “I don’t know if I’ve got a hundred screws with me, but I can definitely show you how to use the screwdriver.”  
  
“What kind of a craftsman are you, exactly?” Draco asks, one eyebrow arched.  
  
“One who’s trying to travel light because someone dared him to walk on crutches for a week,” Harry says, rummaging in his bag and pulling out a handful of shiny screws. “Right, stick the wood on this rock and pass me the screwdriver. Try to keep the batteries in this time.”  
  
“Very funny,” Draco mutters, but he does as he’s asked and it’s only a little bit distracting when he leans right over Harry’s shoulder to watch his demonstration.  
  
The screwdriver whirrs noisily, rattling against the screw when Draco’s breath skitters across the back of Harry’s neck and makes his hand shake.  
  
“Not like that,” he says weakly, and then catches his breath.  
  
The robin from the bird table has landed right in the middle of the piece of wood and is now regarding him with its head on one side. Dark little eyes bright with curiosity, it hops to one side and then the other, apparently fearless.  
  
“Why isn’t it frightened of the noise?” Harry whispers.  
  
“Robins are like that,” Draco whispers back, leaning closer until the warmth of his body bleeds all the way down Harry’s back. “Too nosy for their own good.”  
  
“Like Gryffindors?” Harry says, deciding to get in there first.  
  
“No, not like Gryffindors,” Draco murmurs, and his fingertips brush Harry’s hip, just for a moment. “Like you.”  
  
“Don’t listen to a word of it,” Harry tells the robin. He barely dares to move, but the little bird takes several hops towards them, and when Draco pulls something out of his pocket, it twitters and flaps its wings.  
  
With a careful, practised movement, Draco scatters crumbs across the wood and the robin gathers them without hesitation, picking up each one and swallowing it quickly before hurrying to the next. Harry watches, transfixed by the gleaming red feathers and the light, darting movements. He doesn’t think he should even be surprised that Draco has a bag of crumbs in his trouser pocket, but he is, and he can hardly breathe with loving him.  
  
When the crumbs are gone and the robin has flown away, Harry turns, steadying himself on his crutches and meeting Draco’s eyes. They are just inches apart now, and he can see every thread of silver in the grey eyes, hear every caught breath, feel the cold, ridged plastic of the screwdriver still gripped tightly in his hand. Draco reaches out and threads his fingers into Harry’s hair and he shivers. The heavy screwdriver slips from his hand and thuds onto the rotten leaves. He closes his eyes.  
  
“Draco!” Sandrine calls, and suddenly her clacking footsteps are all Harry can hear. They draw apart, and Harry is gratified to see that Draco looks just as disoriented as he feels. “Draco, can you come and give me a hand with Melissa? I need to change her dressing and she’s being... is that a drill?”  
  
Harry and Draco turn as one to see Sandrine striding towards the power drill with a look of delight on her face. She clearly has no idea what she has walked into, and despite Harry’s keen disappointment, he isn’t going to make her feel uncomfortable.  
  
“Are you alright?” Draco whispers.  
  
“Of course,” Harry says, letting out a long breath. “I’m not in a rush, am I?”  
  
Draco squeezes his hand and flashes him a look that makes his stomach flip violently.  
  
“My parents never had anything like this,” Sandrine says, turning to them at last with the drill cradled in her hands. “Can I have a go?”  
  
“This, I have to see,” Draco says, smirking, and she sticks out her tongue at him.  
  
“Of course,” Harry says, hobbling towards her and grabbing up a new piece of wood. If he’s going to be running an impromptu DIY workshop, he might as well do it properly.  
  
“What did you want to do with Melissa?” Draco asks, frowning.  
  
“It can wait,” she says, holding down the power button and making the drill roar loudly.  
  
Harry glances at Draco, wondering just what he has managed to get himself into.  
  
“You started it,” Draco says. “Now let the lady drill.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Nineteenth of December – A clear winter night sky**  
  
  
  
At ten o’clock on Saturday morning, Teddy bounds out of Harry’s kitchen fireplace, so full of energy and stories about his first term at Hogwarts that his words tumble over each other and tie themselves in knots, leaving Harry in a tangle of confused affection that can only be undone with cups of hot chocolate and a request to hear the whole thing again with pauses for breath.  
  
Halfway through a vivid description of the Christmas decorations in the Great Hall, Rose joins them, skittering out of the flames and across the kitchen tiles with her arms held out for balance.  
  
“Your hair is sparkling,” she breathes, eyes wide, and Teddy laughs.  
  
“Grandma says I’ve been doing that since I got home yesterday,” he says, and Harry is amused to notice the sudden appearance of freckles across his nose, just like Rose’s.  
  
“That’s so clever,” she says admiringly. “I wish I was a Meta... a Metama... a special thing like you.”  
  
“You are very special,” Harry tells her, pouring her a cup of hot chocolate and whisking her up onto a chair to drink it with only the smallest of wobbles on his cast.  
  
“Where are your crutches, Uncle Harry?” she asks, and he is pretty sure that it is his guilty expression that is making Teddy snort into his cup.  
  
When they leave the house some minutes later, he makes such an enormous fuss of locating and arranging himself on his crutches that Rose and Teddy are giggling all the way down the street. The air is bitterly cold but he is determined to stick to his plan of a simple outing, and with Ron and Hermione’s words about their childhood memories echoing in his mind, he feels confident that a trip to the park will be good for everyone. He has bread in his coat pockets to feed the swans, a ten pound note for three portions of chips and the reassuring knowledge that the park is a short enough walk even for little legs, and he will not have to attempt a double Side-Along on his crutches.  
  
Harry’s supply of bread is gobbled up by the swans in a matter of minutes, and when they move off in the direction of the playground, they are followed almost all the way by a couple of particularly optimistic birds, long necks extended and big feet flapping on the tarmac. Rose laughs, breath turning opaque in the icy air, and breaks into a run. She makes impressive time, despite being hampered by a thick coat, hat, scarf and gloves, and Harry decides to let Teddy run after her while he follows at a more sedate pace on his crutches.  
  
When he reaches them, Teddy is pushing Rose on a swing. Smiling to himself, Harry lowers himself onto the next swing along and gathers his crutches in one hand. Neither of them seem even slightly bothered by the cold or the lack of a new adventure, and he allows himself to let go of just a little bit more of the tension that had once pulled him tight.  
  
“You know those girls who wouldn’t leave the trout alone?” Teddy says.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“They’ve been trying to catch one in the lake. To keep as a pet.”  
  
Harry looks at him, intrigued. “Are there even trout in that lake?”  
  
“I don’t know. All they’ve managed to do so far is wake up the Giant Squid. Girls,” Teddy sighs.  
  
“Hey!” Rose protests, turning her head to scowl at him as she swings. “I’m a girl.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Teddy says. “Sorry.”  
  
He gives her an extra hard push and she soars skyward, sticking out her legs and tipping her head back to let her vivid hair stream behind her. Harry keeps his hand on his wand, ready to catch her if she loses her grip on the chains, but he isn’t needed. Soon, both children abandon the swings and chase each other over to the climbing frame, where they create an elaborate game with rules that Harry hasn’t a hope of understanding.  
  
After chips, another round of hot chocolate, and more questions than Harry can count, they leave him exhausted but content, sprawling on his sofa with his eyes closed and his head spinning. The sun is already setting and he knows that he should be sorting out his neglected formalwear for the first of the two functions that he and Draco have decided to attend, but he can’t quite bring himself to move. He feels heavy in a wonderful way, every muscle seeming to melt into the gentle support of the sofa, skin and hair swept calm by the cold, clean wind, mind drifting into a comfortable haze.  
  
With a long, easy sigh, he lets his arms fall to his sides and floats away.  
  
When he opens his eyes, the room is completely dark and he groans. Rubbing at his face, he spells light into the lamps and squints at the clock on the mantelpiece before jumping to his feet, remembering his cast a second too late and flopping back onto the sofa. He takes a deep breath and tries again, more carefully this time, managing to stay upright and snatching up his crutches. He struggles upstairs, cursing his lack of self control all the way to the bathroom, where he races through a shower, cuts himself shaving and attempts to flatten his hair.  
  
He is not going to be late to this fucking thing, and not just because that is exactly what Draco will expect him to do. If he has to get ready and get there in less than ten minutes, he will somehow make that happen. Flinging his crutches on his bed, he rifles through his wardrobe and yanks out his trusty old black dress robes. They are plain, they fit him perfectly, and they are, he thinks, so boring that they can never be truly in or out of fashion. Draco has hundreds of sets of dress robes; they are all dark and well-cut and beautifully made, but they are all just a little bit different, and as Harry stands there, checking his trousers for creases, he wonders if he has always paid such close attention to Draco.  
  
He glances at his image in the mirror only to find that he is smiling stupidly. Shaking his head, he dresses hurriedly, arranging his trouser hem over his cast and straightening his collar. He doubts he will ever feel truly comfortable in dress robes, but he will have to do. With crutches in hands and money bag in pocket, he takes a fortifying breath and Disapparates.  
  
When he appears in the sweeping, circular driveway of the mansion where the Ministry Heroes Ball is being held, he feels as though he has been spelled to the spot. He hasn’t given himself time to be nervous about attending his first function in almost three weeks, but now that he is confronted with the imposing old house, the blazing lights and the crowds of eminent witches and wizards, his insides are seething with unease. The front doors are opened and closed by two men in dark robes not unlike his own, and each time, the music swirls out into the night and seems to knock Harry backwards.  
  
He is just wondering if he could leave before anyone notices him when the doors open again and a graceful, black-clad figure comes stalking over the gravel. As he steps into the light from the lanterns lining the drive, his pale hair seems to glow, and Harry’s heart leaps with relief.  
  
“Draco,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.  
  
“Hello,” Draco murmurs, looking him up and down with interest. “Are you planning on coming inside?”  
  
“Yeah, of course, I just...” Harry trails off, attention stolen by Draco’s immaculate outfit, his polished shoes and his stiff shirt collar. The overall effect is very strange now that he has become accustomed to jumpers and wellingtons. Not a hair is out of place, and he smells lightly of peppermint.  
  
“You have a very odd look on your face,” Draco says.  
  
“Mint,” Harry says vaguely, and Draco laughs.  
  
“It’s a starching spell,” he explains, holding out his sleeve for Harry to inspect. “I use it on my formal robes to stop them creasing.”  
  
Harry sniffs cautiously at the fabric and then stares at Draco for a moment before shaking himself and casting around for some words that will make him seem less like a mad person.  
  
“How did you know I was out here?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I said I had a feeling?” Draco asks, mouth quirking at one corner.  
  
“Not really,” Harry admits.  
  
“I was at the bar and I heard your favourite Undersecretary saying he’d just passed you on the drive,” Draco says, and Harry groans.  
  
“I hoped he might have decided to give this one a miss.”  
  
“Why would he do that?”  
  
Harry shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s plausible. Just that I hoped.”  
  
Draco snorts and places a gentle hand on Harry’s back, guiding him across the gravel and towards the entrance. Harry lets him, nervousness retreating almost all the way at the careful, solicitous touch, and when the doors are pulled open for them, he finds a smile for the two men who greet them by name.  
  
The ballroom is enormous, high-ceilinged and glittering with decorations and festive lights. The floor is already beginning to fill with people, and many more sit around circular tables with candles and white linen cloths. In the air above the band, hovering fairies spell out the message _‘The Ministry Welcomes Heroes of 2009’_.  
  
Harry takes a deep breath and the glass that Draco holds out to him. He likes this event. He had argued hard for it when they had made their list and now that he is here, he knows he did the right thing. Unlike many of the Ministry’s functions throughout the year, this one recognises ordinary witches and wizards who have carried out acts of bravery, altruism and extraordinary strength. The awards honour adults, children and even Muggles, who may never know of their achievements but who continue to remind the magical world of their importance.  
  
Harry looks around for the nominees, spotting several of them sitting with their friends and families and noting that many of them look just as uncomfortable in their robes and gowns as he is. When he darts a sidelong glance at Draco, he is hit by a realisation that prevents him from looking away.  
  
Yes, Draco is perfectly styled and dressed, just like he always used to be, but he is different. His face isn’t sharp or mocking, it’s real and alive with interest and cautious warmth. The man standing next to him isn’t the old Draco, the one who was stored away in a box at the end of the night; he is just Draco in dress robes, and Harry wants to laugh with relief.  
  
“Minister at three o’clock,” Draco says under his breath.  
  
It takes a moment for Harry to gather himself but when he turns to his right, he sees Kingsley approaching with his wife at his side, both dressed in rich, jewel-coloured silks.  
  
“Harry, how wonderful to see you,” Kingsley booms, patting Harry’s arm and beaming. “Draco, have you tried the wine? I’m not convinced and I’d like an expert’s opinion.”  
  
Biting down on a smile, Harry watches as Draco talks at length about the contents of his glass, sniffing it every now and then, while Kingsley nods, oblivious to the fact that Draco is making up every word as he goes along.  
  
“You’ve been missed,” Indira Shacklebolt says, and Harry turns to her.  
  
“I’m sorry I’ve had to back out of so many events this year,” he says. “Life has been... it’s been a bit unusual.”  
  
He gestures with his crutches and she smiles. “You don’t need to apologise to anyone. If I’m honest, I don’t know how you’ve managed it all these years. It’s wonderful that you’re finally taking some time for yourself.”  
  
Harry can feel Draco’s eyes on him, even as he continues to tell Kingsley that the wine has a thrilling romance of moth wings about it. He smiles weakly at Indira.  
  
“I haven’t had much choice, to be honest,” he admits. “I have some very stubborn friends.”  
  
“Some good friends, I think,” she says, and Harry nods.  
  
“That, too.”  
  
When the Shacklebolts drift away to speak with another group, Harry and Draco find an empty table. They are soon joined by several couples and an enormous set of triplets who Harry thinks have been nominated for their work with the children of Squibs. Before long, the food starts to appear, and Harry makes his way through five delicious courses before a lady in green robes steps onto the stage and begins the process of handing out awards.  
  
Full of food and wine, Harry watches the ceremony and allows his mind to drift a little. At his side, Draco sets up a running commentary on everything from the nominees’ robe choices to the quality of their handshakes.  
  
“Look at that wet fish,” he murmurs, watching a nervous man shaking the hand of the presenter and accepting his trophy. “If that’s how he shakes hands, I don’t like to imagine him handling a Kneazle.”  
  
“Maybe he’s more confident with animals than he is with people,” Harry says, and then he frowns. “How long have you had your sanctuary?”  
  
“Hmm?” Draco mumbles distractedly.  
  
“Never mind.”  
  
Harry fiddles with his wineglass and wonders. He has been coming to these events for over a decade now, and he knows for a fact that Draco has never received an award for his work with animals. He deserves one—there’s no question about that—but Harry has the feeling that the focus and scrutiny that goes along with one of these things would make him very unhappy. Still... perhaps there’s something that he can do.  
  
“You just missed someone falling over,” Draco says, poking him. “Concentrate.”  
  
“Sorry,” Harry whispers, tucking the idea away for later and fixing his eyes on the stage.  
  
**~*~**  
  
With the award ceremony completed and the dancing well underway, Harry leaves the table in search of fresh air. Draco follows him, carrying both their drinks and allowing Harry to hobble through the crowds on his crutches until he finds a set of French doors that lead out onto a balcony. The cold air is wonderful after the warmth of the ballroom, and Harry tips his head back, letting the wind rush over him in waves.  
  
He can’t remember exactly where the house is located, but it is far enough outside London for the sky to be a velvety pitch black and strewn with so many stars that Harry feels dizzy. He rests his crutches against the stone barrier and leans on it, inhaling the scent of winter and smiling when Draco pulls the door closed and plunges them into almost-silence. He sets the wine glasses on the cold stone and then stands at Harry’s side without a word.  
  
Harry looks at him, aching as he realises that Draco has been there all along. Standing right next to him. Waiting. And he has been too busy running in circles to notice. He swallows hard, knowing that all the useful words are caught in his throat and unwilling to ruin the moment with incoherence. With a massive effort, he lifts his eyes back to the stars, and when he reaches out for Draco’s hand, cold fingers thread through his and hold on tight.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Twentieth of December – Snowy scene with a pond and a bridge**  
  
  
  
The snow falls thickly around the Burrow, floating down from the sky and settling in soft flakes on the ground, the house, and Harry’s head and shoulders. The ground is already carpeted in white from an earlier fall and promises to be treacherous underfoot, but Harry doesn’t care. He has his crutches and he has Draco, who is standing at his side and radiating apprehension in waves. Despite Harry’s parting reassurance the previous night that everything would be absolutely fine, Draco is as pale and stiff right now as he had looked at the end of the ball, when the two of them had gone their separate ways with a brush of fingers and an anxious smile that had wrenched Harry’s heart.  
  
When he darts a covert glance at him now, their eyes meet and the same smile tugs at the tense line of Draco’s lips.  
  
“I know it’s been a long time since you saw them,” Harry says, and the falling snow seems to muffle his words. “I know this must be all kinds of nerve-wracking. But I promise you, the worst you’re going to get from anybody here is too many questions and too much food.”  
  
Draco nods, blinking snowflakes from his eyelashes. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I keep thinking about how my father behaved towards them and I feel as though I could start apologising the moment they open the door and still not have finished when they ask us to leave.”  
  
Harry grips his hand tightly, caught in the guilt and shame that seems to be anchoring Draco to the spot.  
  
“Okay. First of all, they won’t want your apologies. Molly and Arthur are proud, but not only that, they are not the sort of people who are going to expect you to carry your father’s mistakes forever. They just want to meet you and start all over again and stuff you full of food... and there’s the other thing—they won’t ask you to leave. I don’t think they’ve ever asked anyone to leave—that’s how they ended up looking after Ginny’s boyfriend for about a month once. He decided he liked Hotel Weasley better than his crappy student flat and just didn’t go home.”  
  
“How did they get rid of him?” Draco asks, appalled.  
  
“They didn’t, that’s the point,” Harry laughs. “Ginny finally came to her senses and kicked him out herself. He made a huge fuss so she threw all of his stuff out of the window. It was brilliant.”  
  
For a moment, Draco’s small smile flickers into one of genuine amusement, and then he frowns down at the bottle in his hand.  
  
“Do you think this will be enough?” he asks anxiously.  
  
“Yes,” Harry says yet again. “They’ll be thrilled. No one usually brings anything, and both of them love a glass of firewhisky, especially at Christmas. Come on, let’s go before Molly starts to panic.”  
  
“We don’t want that,” Draco says, releasing Harry’s hand so that he can forge ahead on his crutches.  
  
“No,” Harry agrees. “We do not.”  
  
When they reach the back door, Draco lifts his hand to knock and Harry just lets himself in, hobbling into the kitchen and greeting the milling Weasleys with a grin. The room is deliciously warm and smells like everything Harry associates with Sundays—roasted meat and vegetables, spiced fruits, fresh bread and clean clothes. On the stove, a spiral of steam is rising from an enormous pan of gravy, and Molly pauses in stirring it to turn and beam at both of them.  
  
“Harry,” she sighs, bustling over to him and folding him into a hug while the gravy continues to stir itself. “Hello, Draco,” she adds, pulling back to smile easily at him as he hangs back in the doorway.  
  
“Shut the door, Malfoy!” someone bellows, and Harry turns in the direction of the voice to find George, Ron, and Ginny gazing innocently back at him.  
  
Draco closes the door on the snow and seems to shake himself. “Sorry. Thank you for having me, Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley,” he says, handing the bottle to Arthur.  
  
“That’s very kind of you,” Arthur says, looking rather startled.  
  
Ginny sidles up with a handful of cutlery and peers down at the firewhisky. “Ooh, Borteg’s,” she murmurs, and then stops. “Hang on, I thought you were some kind of wine expert?”  
  
Draco looks at Harry with such anguish that he barely stifles his laughter.  
  
“Why does everyone think that?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Ginny admits. “Isn’t it true?”  
  
“No,” Draco says vehemently. “It really isn’t.”  
  
“To be fair, you don’t really help yourself,” Harry points out. “You just keep making stuff up and some of it sounds pretty believable.”  
  
“Everything I say is completely ridiculous,” Draco insists, adding, “when I’m talking about wine” a fraction of a second too late.  
  
Ron, Ginny, and George dissolve into laughter and Arthur has to turn away to find a place for the firewhisky in order to hide his smile. Molly sighs and pats Draco on the arm.  
  
“Why don’t you take your coat off and sit down,” she says, eyes already flicking over Draco’s lean frame with the look of a person who is calculating just how many extra roast potatoes will be required to fill him out a little bit.  
  
Draco complies, and Harry takes both of their coats and hobbles over to hang them on the rack, brushing off Molly’s complaints about silly boys and silly bets and even sillier Muggle treatment methods.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Harry assures her. “By the end of today, I will have stuck to the challenge and I’ll be able to take it off.”  
  
“About that,” Hermione says, and Harry looks up to see her creaking down the stairs with a beaming Rose clinging to her back.  
  
“What about it?” Harry asks, instantly suspicious.  
  
“Er... I’ll talk to you about it after lunch, okay?” she says, realising that every eye in the room is trained on her with interest. “Molly, do you need any helping serving up?”  
  
Harry turns to Draco, who is clearly intrigued by the tug of war that occurs every Sunday between Molly and whoever has dared to offer their help.  
  
“That sounds ominous,” he says, and Draco nods vaguely.  
  
“Why doesn’t she want any help? My mother always seems to like it when we make a meal together.”  
  
Charmed by this image, Harry smiles. “Cooking by herself is sort of a point of pride with Molly,” he explains, watching Hermione lift Rose to the floor and throw herself into the pointless ritual. “We all try, but she’s as stubborn as a mule and surprisingly strong.”  
  
“I see,” Draco says, eyes widening as Hermione picks up a serving spoon and Molly tugs it out of her hands with no effort at all. “Now it all makes sense.”  
  
“Don’t be daft, nothing makes sense in this house,” George says, ducking behind them to grab a box of candles for the table.  
  
“Speaking of which,” Ron puts in. “Where’s Percy?”  
  
“He’s going to be late,” Arthur says. “He had a meeting this morning and it’s overrun.”  
  
Molly lets out a small sound of dissatisfaction and then manages to nudge Hermione away from the worktop where she has been trying to divide carrots onto a row of plates.  
  
“We’ll do it at the table,” she insists.  
  
“It’s easier this way,” Hermione tries, and Harry doesn’t know whether to admire her bravery or drag her away before she goes too far.  
  
“Does everyone always talk at once?” Draco asks in a bewildered whisper.  
  
Harry nods. “This is quiet. Sometimes Bill and Charlie are home, then there’s Fleur and Victoire and Charlie’s boyfriend, and if there’s a party or something, all the other relatives will be here and it’s brilliant but you can’t hear yourself think.”  
  
“What would you want to do that for? The silence would be unnerving,” George says, grinning, and Harry whacks him lightly with a crutch.  
  
To his surprise, Draco smiles. It’s a small smile but it’s real, and Harry feels a little of the anxiety fall away from both of them. When they all sit down around the table to eat, Molly fusses over each of them and Draco is no exception. He receives her attentions with startled good grace, taking a little of everything that is offered and darting regular glances at Harry as though reassuring himself that he is handling the situation in the proper manner.  
  
He seems quietly delighted when everyone continues to tease Harry and amused to see him give back just as good as he gets. Though he doesn’t speak much beyond answering any question he is asked, Harry has the sneaking suspicion that he is starting to enjoy himself. When Rose plies him with enquiries about Harold and Briana, he answers each of them with care and the little girl wriggles in her seat and beams at him. Percy arrives just as dessert is being served, Apparating directly into the dining room and doing a double-take at the sight of Draco. In true public official form, though, he quickly collects himself and shakes Draco’s hand with vigour before lowering himself into an empty chair and accepting a bowl of cherry pie from his father.  
  
“Who’d like more pie?” Molly asks when almost everyone has finished their desserts.  
  
Rose is still ploughing her way through her portion, partly because she is tiny and partly because she is still chattering away to Draco about the girl in her class whose family own a sheep farm.  
  
“And do you know,” she says, poking at her ice cream, “that in the spring time, the sheep get hot and the farmer shaves off all their wool and then he sells it and people make jumpers and the farmer gets money and he buys more sheep...”  
  
“Eat your pie, Rosie,” Ron says when she pauses for breath.  
  
“I will. Draco, do you know what it’s called when there’s a lot of sheep?” she asks.  
  
“I’m not sure that I do,” Draco lies, expression serious.  
  
“It’s called a flock. And when there’s one sheep, it’s sheep, and when there’s two sheep, it’s still sheep,” she explains.  
  
“Pie, George?” Molly tries again, wielding a serving spoon stained violently red with cherry filling.  
  
“Thanks,” George says, holding out his dish.  
  
Molly gives him another generous slice and then works her way around the table. Harry watches with overfed inevitability as everyone accepts a second helping, and then holds out his dish without a word when Molly reaches him. Soon, only Draco and Rose, still embroiled in their farmyard discussion, have not been prodded to take a second slice, and Harry finds himself wondering if they will be spared. Rose, after all, hasn’t yet finished her first serving of dessert, and Draco... well, Draco is still very new to all of this. Perhaps Molly will take pity on him.  
  
Then again, he thinks, watching the deepening of the little crease of concern between her eyebrows, perhaps not. He can almost hear her thinking about how skinny Draco looks, how pale, how he needs to be fed up as quickly as possible. Around him, the air is buzzing with several different conversations, but all Harry can hear is:  
  
“Draco? Would you like some more pie?”  
  
“No, thank you,” he says with a polite smile. “I’m full.”  
  
At the sound of those words, a hush falls over the table, and everyone turns slowly to look at Draco.  
  
“You can’t be full,” Molly says, laughing. “You’ve hardly eaten anything.”  
  
Ginny and Ron exchange glances. Arthur gazes at his wife with mild alarm. Percy stops eating and looks Draco over with narrowed eyes, as though trying to remember when anyone last tried to refuse food from his mother. Harry almost thinks he looks impressed, but it doesn’t stop the feeling that Draco is going to be given a second piece of pie, whether he wants it or not.  
  
“It’s all been delicious,” Draco says firmly. “But I couldn’t eat another thing.”  
  
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” George whispers theatrically. Harry snorts.  
  
For long seconds, Molly says nothing. She stands there at the head of the table, serving spoon in one hand while the other reaches out for Draco’s bowl, looking so baffled that Harry wants to get up and give her a hug.  
  
_Fuck it_ , he thinks, and he is halfway out of his chair when she sighs and says:  
  
“Well, I’ll put some out for you and if you change your mind, you can have it later.”  
  
Clearly confused, Draco lets her have his bowl and she scoops pie and ice cream into it before setting it down on the table. Caught in a rush of love for his surrogate mother and her madness, Harry rests his chin on her shoulder and hugs her tightly. She smells of Sunday lunch and forget-me-nots and her silver-streaked hair is soft where it brushes his face.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, feeling her smile against his shoulder. “I’m going to go out and get some air for a minute—Draco, are you coming? You can have a look at those ducks.”  
  
Draco quickly excuses himself and follows Harry to the back door, leaving behind the tangle of voices which has now risen back to its usual volume. The snow falls in silent drifts, covering their footsteps and reducing the world to sweeps of dazzling white. Each step is a challenge for Harry and his crutches, but he struggles on, determined to reach the pond where he knows there are not only ducks but a nice, comfortable bench.  
  
When they get there, Draco spells the snow away from the wooden slats and casts a warming charm that blunts the worst of the chill. They sit side by side in the shadow of a little stone bridge and look over the half-frozen pond, listening to the quacks and creaks and trills that emanate from the water and the straggling grasses. This pond is nothing like the neat, sculptured one in the grounds of the Manor; Draco’s pond is beautiful but this one is wild and alive, surrounded by reed beds and dotted with tiny, mossy islands, where little groups of ducks are sleeping or tidying their feathers.  
  
“Can you hear that?” Draco says quietly, and Harry listens until he hears a long, whistling call that lifts high above the other, more usual duck sounds.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Widgeons,” Draco says, pointing. “Look.”  
  
Harry looks and finally picks out a pair of ducks with striking copper-coloured heads and short, black-tipped beaks. He feels an odd sense of satisfaction as one of them launches into the whistling cry right before his eyes.  
  
“There are also teals,” Draco says, pointing again. “And Muscovies. Do the Weasleys encourage them?”  
  
Harry frowns. “Encourage them to do what? Perform tricks? Reach their full potential?”  
  
Draco laughs, attempting to cover the sound by rubbing a hand over his face.  
  
“Naturally, but I also wondered how they made this environment so suitable for them. Ducks like this don’t just turn up on any old pond.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “They’ve always been here. I bet Arthur would be able to tell you, though. You should ask him.”  
  
“I might,” Draco says, and they lapse into a silence broken only by the conversation of the ducks.  
  
Draco’s thigh rests full length against Harry’s on the bench, warm and secure. His breaths are calm, keeping a tranquil sort of time with the slow swish of the reeds. Harry watches the snow fall over the water and allows himself to lose track of time.  
  
When Hermione stomps through the snow and sits on the bench beside him, he blinks at her lazily and then shuffles closer to Draco to give her more room.  
  
“Do you know you’ve been out here for twenty minutes? Molly was so convinced you’d fallen in the snow that she was about to come rushing out here herself. I managed to persuade her to put the kettle on instead,” Hermione says, wrapping her hands around the leather book in her lap.  
  
“Is she going to make me eat that pie?” Draco asks.  
  
“No, Ron had it when she wasn’t looking,” Hermione says. “You’re off the hook.”  
  
“That’s a relief,” Harry says. “Anyway, didn’t you say you wanted to talk to me about my cast?”  
  
Hermione nods. “Both of you, really. So, I’ve been studying the ins and outs of making a civil case against the poachers and I think I’ve got it all worked out. I’m also pretty sure I know exactly which address they’re working out of.”  
  
“That’s brilliant,” Harry says, grinning at Hermione. “How the hell did you do that? And more to the point, what has it got to do with my leg?”  
  
Hermione sighs. “I’m getting to that. As for how... Harry, if I start explaining it to you, you’ll just go to sleep.”  
  
“Are you actually insulting my intelligence?” Harry asks, attempting to look offended.  
  
“No,” Draco says. “She’s insulting your attention span and she’s absolutely right. Go on, Hermione.”  
  
She smiles. “Okay. Well, here’s where I am: we can definitely take this through the courts if that’s what you want to do. We have photographs, we have hospital records, we have traps. I can show a solicitor all my research and let them decide what to do next.”  
  
“Or?” Harry says, sensing the hesitation in her voice.  
  
Hermione bites her lip. “Or we can forget all of the legal stuff and go straight to the source.”  
  
“They’re Muggles,” Draco says, looking alarmed. “We can’t.”  
  
“We can’t do magic in front of them, no,” Hermione says, and there’s a light in her eyes that Harry hasn’t seen for rather a long time. “But there’s no reason why we can go to their house and frighten them a little bit.”  
  
Draco frowns. “Isn’t that... Muggle-baiting?”  
  
“Not this way. All we’d do is dress up nicely and knock on their door, say we’re lawyers and we’re going to sue the pants off them unless they stop putting traps on your land,” Hermione says with satisfaction.  
  
“I think they have stopped putting the traps down now that Ron’s fixed the wards,” Harry points out, but something about Hermione’s plan appeals to him.  
  
“True, but just to make sure, it might be a good idea to... well, as Ron says, ‘put the willies up them’,” Hermione says. “And that’s why I need you to keep your cast for just a little bit longer. I thought we could all go together—Draco and I could pretend to be the lawyers and you could stand around looking woeful. What do you think?”  
  
“When?” Harry asks.  
  
Hermione glances between him and Draco. “Well, I thought tomorrow, actually.”  
  
Harry looks at his cast and sighs. The plaster is grubby and discoloured already and he is still driven mad by itching, even with the help of the knitting needle suggested by Sandrine. Still, he supposes one more day won’t hurt.  
  
“If you think it will help, I’m in,” he says, and Hermione beams.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
“I need a moment to think,” he says, getting up from the bench and walking quietly over to the pond to have a closer look at the ducks.  
  
Hermione turns anxious eyes on Harry. “Do you think I’ve upset him?”  
  
“No,” Harry says. “I think he’s just a bit sensitive about anything involving Muggles these days. I can’t really blame him. Just give him a minute and I think he’ll realise that a bit of a fright is the least these idiots deserve.”  
  
“I hope so,” Hermione says. “The court option could mean months, maybe even years, of arguing back and forth. I’d do it for you, Harry, I want you to know that,” she adds fiercely, “but I’d probably need another Time-Turner.”  
  
Harry hugs her impulsively and doesn’t even roll his eyes when she pulls back and starts surrounding him with diagnostic spells. As she scribbles away in her little book, he concentrates on his breathing and on Draco, who is now crouching at the edge of the pond and examining the reeds.  
  
Finally, he draws himself upright and returns, coming to stand in front of Harry and Hermione with his arms folded across his chest.  
  
“I can’t do it,” he says flatly, and Harry can feel Hermione’s disappointment. “There’s every chance they have seen me while they’ve been in the woods and I’d rather not risk being recognised. Also, if I’m honest, the idea of deceiving Muggles in any way is just a little too close to home. Well, a little too close to Lucius, and I just can’t.”  
  
“That’s fair,” Harry says, and though he means his words, he can’t ignore the sinking feeling in his chest that replaces the excitement of just minutes ago.  
  
“It was just an idea,” Hermione says brightly.  
  
“I said that I can’t do it,” Draco points out. “There’s no reason why the two of you shouldn’t, if you really want to.”  
  
“Really?” Hermione beams, clutching her book in her lap.  
  
Draco sits down next to Harry on the bench. “If you’re determined to do this wonderful, insane thing for me, I would be an idiot to stop you,” he says, and Harry doesn’t think he should be surprised when Hermione hugs him.  
  
“Thank you,” she mumbles, face pressed into his shoulder.  
  
“I thought I was the one being done a favour here,” Draco says, arching a puzzled eyebrow and patting Hermione on the back.  
  
“Well, maybe,” Harry says, shrugging. “But I’ve got this feeling we’re going to enjoy ourselves.”  
  
Hermione draws back and stares at Harry, wild-eyed. “We will, but Harry... we’ve got so much planning to do.”  
  
“Inside,” he says, getting to his feet and balancing on his crutches. “We can plan inside the house where we won’t freeze and where Molly won’t think we’ve been eaten by wolves.”  
  
Draco and Hermione follow him back through the snow to the house, where they immediately set up a temporary command station in Molly and Arthur’s living room, under the chaotic haze of hundreds of blinking Christmas lights. Draco may not be planning to come with them tomorrow, but that has not stopped him from throwing himself into the organisational side of things, and before too long, Ron is crouching on the carpet beside them and offering his own suggestions. By the time Harry hobbles into the kitchen for a pot of tea, his head is pounding and the floor is strewn with bits of parchment and the contents of Hermione’s vast handbag.  
  
He finds Molly at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a steaming cup and eyes fixed on Rose, who is lining up toy animals on the tiles in some sort of order that only she understands.  
  
“Alright if I make another pot?” he asks.  
  
“Of course, Harry. Should I even ask what Hermione and Draco are doing?”  
  
Harry smiles and rinses out the teapot. “Let’s just say they’re looking for justice. If you want to know anything else, you can ask them.”  
  
Molly laughs. “I’ll bear that in mind. He seems like a very decent young man, anyway.”  
  
“Yeah, he... really?” Harry turns to her and she shakes her head.  
  
“You needn’t look so surprised, Harry. The past is the past, you know that, and you obviously like him. You’re a very good judge of character,” she says, and something in her expression dares him to disagree.  
  
“Thank you,” he says instead. “I’m glad you think so.”  
  
“Ron told me you were friends, of course, but he never told me that the two of you were an item,” Molly says, gazing at Harry reproachfully.  
  
“Well, we’re...” Harry hesitates, heart pounding as he tries out every description he can think of and finds them all wanting. His eyes catch the large picture of Fred that hangs on the kitchen wall, and Fred grins out of the frame and then winks. Harry turns back to Molly. “He’s with me.”


	21. Chapter Twenty-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Twenty-first of December – A pen and a journal**  
  
  
  
“Where is Hermione?” Draco asks, squinting against the morning sunshine as he attempts to look down the drive.  
  
“She won’t be long, I’m sure,” Harry says. “Do you want to see my woeful expression while we wait?”  
  
Draco turns to him, one eyebrow flickering. “Have you been practising?”  
  
“Of course,” Harry says blithely, and Draco doesn’t need to know that he actually has spent several minutes staring miserably at himself in the mirror before leaving the house. He blinks slowly, allows his mouth to droop, and slouches on his crutches. “What do you think?”  
  
“Very woeful. Perhaps a little too woeful, in fact,” Draco says, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “You don’t want to overplay it.”  
  
“How about this?” Harry asks, trying again and ruining the morose line of his mouth when Harold and Chase dash down the steps of the portico and through his legs, followed several seconds later by a quacking Peter.  
  
Composing himself, he makes a third attempt, and then a fourth and fifth, while Draco offers mostly-constructive criticism. Harry is trying to follow some unnecessarily complicated advice regarding the positions of his eyebrows when he hears Hermione’s footsteps on the gravel. He turns to face her and grins.  
  
“Look at you!”  
  
“Oh, don’t, I feel self-conscious enough as it is,” she grouses, but Harry can’t help it.  
  
It’s been a long time since he saw her in anything but jeans or Healer robes, and the neat, charcoal grey suit makes her look like a completely different person. Her unruly hair has been swept up out of her face and her shiny, pointed shoes make her steps a little tentative, but they also give her several extra inches of height, which only serves to make her look rather intimidating.  
  
“Hermione, you’ve got legs,” Harry laughs, and she gives him a reluctant smile.  
  
“I’m wearing tights,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “They’re weird.”  
  
“You look very professional,” Draco says. “And a little bit frightening.”  
  
This time, Hermione laughs. “Thanks, I think. I’ve been wearing robes for so long that I’d completely forgotten how restrictive all this stuff is. Harry, have you been practising looking woeful?”  
  
“For several years now,” Draco says, and Harry smirks when Harold comes whirring back around and crashes into his shin. Draco sighs and then glances between Harry and Hermione. “Are you sure about this?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry insists, just as Hermione says, “Of course” and Draco nods stiffly.  
  
“In that case, good luck. I hope you put all the willies up them.”  
  
Harry meets Hermione’s eyes and bites down on a smile. Clearly amused, she takes his arm and instructs him to hold on tightly to his crutches. He closes his eyes, preparing for the wrench of Apparation, and when he opens them again, they are standing at the bottom of a short, stony driveway and looking up at a rundown house with several outbuildings.  
  
“They’re farmers?” Harry mumbles, taking in the fields and the stench of manure.  
  
“Not proper ones,” Hermione says. “There are a few animals in these fields, but according to my research, the people who live here run some sort of car business in town. They’re quite wealthy, too—it’s not as though they need to steal other people’s animals.”  
  
She gazes up at the house with a stony expression. Harry puts his arm around her shoulders and squashes her against his side for a moment. He can see people moving around inside the building and his heart seems to be trying to leap into the back of his mouth, but he doesn’t care. He can do this. He can do it for Draco and for Briana and her mother and all of the other animals who have lost their lives because of these people.  
  
“Come on,” he says, letting her go and leaning on his crutches. “Let’s go before they come out and ask what we’re doing at the bottom of their drive.”  
  
Hermione nods, and together, they approach the house. Harry moves slowly over the uneven ground but she walks beside him, keeping a steady pace until they reach the first outbuilding, at which point she puts a finger to her lips and darts inside. Harry waits without a word, and when she emerges, she is flushed and grinning.  
  
“Traps,” she whispers. “Just like the one you stood on.”  
  
Harry returns her smile and then pastes on his woeful expression. Hermione schools her features into a harsh mask and they walk the rest of the way to the front door. She takes a deep breath and raps three times on the painted wood. As they wait, she taps her fingers on her smart new briefcase, faster and faster until Harry thinks his head is going to explode. Finally the door flies open.  
  
“Yes?” demands a tall man with dark hair and heavy black eyebrows.  
  
“Are you Mr Garrett?” Hermione asks, straightening her posture. “Mr Christopher Garrett? Date of birth, seventeenth of the fourth, nineteen seventy-two?”  
  
“Yes,” he repeats, scowling and wrapping one large hand around the edge of the door. “What do you want?”  
  
“My name is Jean Prewett from Granger and Granger associates,” she says, opening her briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of papers, as well as what looks like a notebook. “This is my client, Mr Potter.”  
  
The man looks at Harry, who hangs dejectedly on his crutches and avoids his eyes.  
  
“I really think there’s been some mistake here,” the man says, frowning at Harry’s cast.  
  
“I’m afraid not, Mr Garrett,” Hermione says, and when she shows him the cover of her notebook, all the colour seems to drain out of his face.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he says, leaning against the doorframe and shaking his head.  
  
Harry wants to tell him that he will before too long, but instead he continues to hunch and frown.  
  
“Our firm has evidence that you have been trespassing on private land and laying traps in order to capture and then remove animals that do not belong to you,” Hermione says. “Mr Potter was caught in one of these traps and sustained major injuries to his foot and ankle. He suffered three broken bones and severe soft tissue damage. As you can see, we have his hospital records here...”  
  
She thrusts several pieces of paper into Mr Garrett’s hands and then continues.  
  
“We also have several of the traps in our possession, including the one stepped on by my client. Here are some photographs of the item in question along with photographs of Mr Potter’s injuries. I can assure you that these have been digitally analysed and proven to be a visual match.”  
  
Hermione passes over the photographs and Mr Garrett takes them in silence. Harry watches covertly as he stares at each picture in turn, face grey and fingers shaking.  
  
Hermione presses on, fierce and unrelenting. “We have also gathered evidence that you are in possession of these traps, which are, as I’m sure you will know, illegal.”  
  
“I haven’t got these,” Mr Garrett says weakly, pointing at the grisly image of the trap covered in Harry’s blood. “I don’t use traps like these.”  
  
“Is that so?” Hermione asks. “So, if we were to have a look in your outbuildings—?”  
  
“You can’t,” he interrupts. “I have rights!”  
  
“Of course, Mr Garrett,” she demurs, voice turning deceptively soft. “What I’m saying is that I’d like you to consider your options. I have advised my client that he has a strong case against you and, should he take you to court, it’s likely that he will be awarded damages in excess of five figures.”  
  
“And, of course, there’s nothing stopping me just calling the police,” Harry says, and Mr Garrett draws in a sharp breath, as though surprised to hear him speak.  
  
“That’s right,” Hermione says, and she takes back her papers with a cool smile.  
  
Mr Garrett stares wildly between them, clutching the door and vibrating it back and forth in his panic until Harry starts to think he is planning to slam it shut in their faces.  
  
“Chris, what are you doing?” someone calls from inside the house, and Mr Garrett lets out a rough breath.  
  
“Nothing, just... god botherers,” he calls back. He turns to Hermione, voice lowered to a desperate whisper. “Listen, I didn’t... my wife doesn’t know anything about this. I didn’t bloody know that land belonged to anyone, and I never thought a _person_ would... surely we can sort this out without having to drag the authorities into it?”  
  
Hermione and Harry exchange glances. For a moment, he thinks she is going to tell Mr Garrett that she’ll see him in court, but then she takes a controlled breath and tucks her papers back into her briefcase, retrieves a silver pen in a wonderfully unhurried fashion, and opens her notebook.  
  
“Mr Garrett, if you are prepared to make a sworn statement to the effect that you will no longer set foot in those woods, that you will destroy your remaining traps, and that you will make a charitable donation to an animal welfare organisation of Mr Potter’s choice, we may be able to settle out of court,” she says, and Harry has to suppress a smile of pure pride.  
  
Mr Garrett darts a glance back into the house, and then another at Hermione’s notebook. He nods grimly and takes her pen to sign the paperwork she seems to have produced from nowhere.  
  
“Wonderful,” she says, whipping it away from him before he can change his mind. “We’ll keep hold of this, and I will come back in a few days to discuss our terms.”  
  
Mr Garrett nods numbly, eyes dropping once more to Harry’s cast and then lifting back to his face in what almost seems to be an apology.  
  
“Are you going to leave now?” he asks anxiously.  
  
“Of course,” Hermione says brightly. “Have a Merry Christmas!”  
  
Fixing her with an incredulous look, Mr Garrett slams the door. Harry turns away from the house and drops his woeful expression. He grins at Hermione and hobbles as fast as he can down the driveway, ducking out of sight and laughing himself breathless.  
  
“Hermione, that was amazing,” he sighs happily.  
  
“I think I’m going to fall over,” she says, leaning against someone’s hedge and closing her eyes. She smiles, all traces of hard-nosed lawyer gone from her face and posture. “Did I really do that?”  
  
“You did, and you were fantastic. He just crumbled! What the hell did you show him at the beginning? I thought he was going to faint,” Harry says.  
  
Hermione opens her eyes. “It’s just my journal,” she says, pulling out the now innocent-looking leather bound book. “I charmed it to look like whatever legal thing he would find most intimidating.”  
  
“That is insanely clever,” Harry says.  
  
When he hugs her, she is shaking in his arms, and it only takes him a moment to decide that what she needs is a sit down and a big cup of tea. Keeping her close, he looks around for witnesses and then Disapparates, taking them both to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Once there, he drops his crutches and hops over to the kettle, all the time expecting to be scolded for not taking care, but when he sets it to boil and turns to Hermione, she is standing exactly where he left her with her face in her hands.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asks, scrubbing at his hair in an effort to shake off the spikes of adrenaline that are surging jaggedly through his veins.  
  
Hermione drops her hands and hugs herself, flushed and grinning. “Yes. I think so. We used to take much bigger risks than that without thinking... I must be getting old.”  
  
“Not a word of it,” Harry insists. “I felt about sixteen watching you scare the hell out of that idiot. It was brilliant. And besides, none of that stuff we used to do was done without thinking—not when you were around, anyway.”  
  
Hermione laughs. “I suppose that’s true. I hardly ever have to remind you or Ron to look before you leap any more.”  
  
“I can’t speak for Ron but you stop me from doing stupid things on a regular basis,” Harry says, flicking his wand to send a chair sliding out from under the table for Hermione. She sits in it, looking dubious. “I’m serious,” Harry says. “You’ve got plenty of your own stuff to worry about, and you still find time to stage a full-scale intervention for me. You’re incredible, and I’m going to make you a cup of tea now. And possibly a piece of toast, if there is a slice of bread in this house.”  
  
Hermione sits quietly for several minutes as he hobbles around the kitchen. He can feel her eyes tracking his movements from cupboard to cupboard and sink to pantry, where he finds no bread but a slightly battered packet of chocolate biscuits. When he sets the tray on the table, she takes her tea and immediately dips a biscuit into it.  
  
“Thank you,” she says after a moment, wiping crumbs from her fingertips and fixing Harry with a patient expression that unnerves him. “Harry, where do you get this idea that my life is full of worry? I mean, even if it was, I’d still want to help you, but I think my lot is quite peaceful compared to what some people have to put up with.”  
  
Surprised, Harry looks at her for a moment too long, and his biscuit breaks in the middle, one half remaining in his grasp and the other sinking slowly to the bottom of his cup.  
  
He sighs. “Well, you’ve got your career...”  
  
“Harry, I love my job,” Hermione interrupts, reaching for another biscuit.  
  
“Okay, well, you’ve got Rose...”  
  
“I love Rose,” she laughs.  
  
“Of course you do, but having a child seems to come with a lot to worry about... doesn’t it?” Harry says, feeling uncertain now.  
  
“I suppose so, but it’s worth it. The same goes for having a Ron, before you mention that,” she says, dark eyes sparkling.  
  
Harry smiles and drinks his biscuity tea. “Alright... but then there’s your parents.”  
  
Hermione frowns and Harry knows at once that he shouldn’t have mentioned her mother and father. He has no idea why he thought it was a good idea—he never brings them up in conversation if he can help it, and he’s a complete idiot for ruining Hermione’s good mood by doing so now.  
  
“Sorry,” he says quietly, and her frown just deepens.  
  
“Why are you apologising?” she asks.  
  
“Because I shouldn’t have said that... and because you look so upset,” Harry says.  
  
She shakes her head. “I’m confused, not upset. Harry, my parents aren’t one of the worries in my life and you should never feel like you can’t talk about them.”  
  
“Okay, I’m confused now,” Harry admits, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.  
  
Hermione smiles. “You think that because sometimes they forget me for a little while that I must be very sad,” she says gently.  
  
“Well, yeah.”  
  
“That’s fair. But here’s the thing. When I brought them home from Australia, every single Mind Healer we went to said that those memory spells couldn’t be reversed. Every single one. But I didn’t give up.”  
  
“Of course you didn’t,” Harry says, and she nods.  
  
“You know how hard I worked. It took years, but now they’re almost back to how they were. Yes, they have their little lapses, but honestly, I’m so grateful to have as much of them as I do. I talk to my mother every day on the telephone, did you know that?”  
  
“No,” Harry admits.  
  
“Well, there you go. We talk, and I can hear my dad in the background shouting things like ‘tell her Brian and I won the pub quiz’ or ‘ask her if Rosie still wants a go-kart for Christmas’.”  
  
“Does she?” Harry asks before he can stop himself.  
  
Hermione shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea. I imagine she’ll be getting one either way. My dad’s pretty organised like that. Anyway, the point is, I have them back—mostly the way they were—and I’m happy. I had no idea you didn’t realise that.”  
  
Harry gazes at his friend, heart twisting. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“What on earth for?”  
  
“I think I’ve been so absorbed in all these things I thought were so important that I’ve neglected you,” Harry says. “And Ron, probably.”  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Hermione says, draining her cup and heading for the kettle.  
  
“Hermione, I’ve spent the last god-knows-how-long running around like a pheasant with its head cut off,” he sighs, wrinkling his nose at the thought. “Poor Harold.”  
  
Hermione laughs. “Yes, you have, but I promise I don’t feel neglected. Neither does Ron. All we wanted was for you to slow down a little bit, and you’ve done that. And got yourself a man into the bargain,” she says, amusement clear in her voice.  
  
“Must you?” Harry asks.  
  
“Oh, yes,” she says, and he makes a face at the plate of biscuits. “Speaking of which, we should go and tell him the good news. I have to be at work in an hour and I want to see his face when you tell him what happened.”  
  
This image pulls a smile from Harry and the simple thought of seeing Draco makes his pulse quicken.  
  
“Another cup of tea first?” he suggests, partly in the interests of _not rushing_ and partly because it’s still bloody cold out there and the wind has begun to howl around the house.  
  
“Of course,” Hermione says. “Please can you pass me my journal? It’s just in the briefcase.”  
  
Harry reaches over and clicks open the briefcase. He extracts the journal, goes to pass it to Hermione, and then stops. He turns the little book over and over in his hands, tracing the soft leather with his fingertips and thinking about all the times she has bent over it and written about him.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
Harry looks at her. “Nothing. I was just curious about all those notes you made when you were examining me,” he admits, shrugging and holding out the book to her.  
  
Hermione bites down on a smile. “Go ahead. Have a look.”  
  
“I’d better not,” Harry says, continuing to wave the book in her direction. “I might think I want to know, but I’d probably feel weird if I actually read them.”  
  
“Harry, just look in the book, okay?”  
  
Puzzled, Harry lowers the book into his lap and opens it, fingers wrapping around the leather bindings as he flips through pages and pages of Hermione’s neat handwriting.  
  
“Am I missing something?” he asks after a moment.  
  
“No.”  
  
“But this is all just... it’s all just lists,” Harry says, eyebrows knitted.  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
He flicks through the pages again, scanning a diagram and a list of materials needed for Rose’s first nativity play costume, a detailed set of directions to a restaurant in Bray, a collection of common words and their translations into Hungarian for ‘patient: Mrs Kovacs’. In between these are scattered little notes and reminders: ‘pick up Rose from dancing – 5pm’ and ‘Harry for dinner – spaghetti?’  
  
He looks through the entire book and cannot find any reference to himself besides the dinner-related scribbles and an entry on what seems to be a Christmas card list. He stares at Hermione, bewildered.  
  
“But what were you writing?”  
  
“Whatever you see there,” she says, placing a cup of tea in front of him and leaning against the counter with her own. “I knew you’d assume I was writing about you, and I thought it would distract you from my tests enough to get a true reading.”  
  
Harry closes the book in his lap and just stares at her. “Hermione, that was positively Slytherin.”  
  
She laughs. “No, it wasn’t. It’s just a technique I use with difficult patients. To be fair, they’re usually children.”  
  
“I have a feeling I should feel very insulted,” Harry says.  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“No, not really,” he admits. “I wouldn’t want to have to deal with me as a patient. I think you did what you had to do. I think I’d rather we didn’t tell Draco about this, though... especially the bit about the children.”  
  
“Your readings have been much better recently,” Hermione says, and she sips her tea. “I’ll consider it.”  
  
Harry wraps his hands around his hot cup, smiles at his friend, and decides not to push it.


	22. Chapter Twenty-two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Twenty-second of December – Cafetiere and coffee**  
  
Draco lowers his wand and looks over his detection field with satisfaction. The complex spell creeps through the wood, covering the frozen ground in a carpet of shimmering green light, and when Harry glances at Draco, he finds that he, too, is bathed in its ghostly glow.

“Not a single trap,” he sighs, relief etched into his sharp features. “None for over a week now.”

Harry grins. “Yep. I think you’ve probably seen the last of them.”

“Did he really look frightened?” Draco asks.

“Of Hermione and her book, definitely,” Harry laughs. “And his wife, I think. I have the feeling he’d have done anything at that point to make sure she didn’t find out.”

“Vile creature,” Draco says contemptuously, expression darkening for a moment before he seems to shake away his anger with some effort. “Right. I refuse to let that reprobate ruin another minute of my life. He is irrelevant and has been dealt with, and as such, we can now release this young man back into his proper environment.”

“Absolutely,” Harry says, shifting on his crutches in search of a comfortable position as Draco crouches to unlock the cage at his feet. “Sandrine is going to be disappointed that she missed this, you know.”

Draco glances at him and then back at the fox, who is now sniffing at the air with interest.

“That’s the life of a vet,” he says. “It’s a shame that she had an emergency call-out, but I promised Bobby that I would let him go today, and I do not break promises, even to foxes.”

“Of course not,” Harry says, hiding a smile. “Off you go, then, Bobby. All the best.”

Draco murmurs to the fox for a moment and then pulls the cage open. They both watch in tense silence as Bobby hesitates with pricked ears, and then he is off, dashing into the trees until nothing is visible but his tail, and then nothing at all. Dispelling the detection charm, Draco smiles to himself and picks up the empty cage.

“Coffee, I think,” he says, starting back towards the house. “Perhaps also muffins.”

Harry hobbles behind him along the path. “Not the ones Ron made?”

Draco laughs. “Good grief, no. Savoury ones. I believe my mother ate most of the brandy-soaked ones. She seemed to think they were rather nice.”

Feeling defensive of his friend’s baking skills, Harry pulls a face at Draco’s back.

“They _are_ nice,” he says stoutly.

“They are ruinous, Harry. One single muffin has no business disturbing an afternoon’s work.”

Harry grins but says nothing. He doesn’t need to. He knows that Draco is remembering his own missteps and mixed up words following one of Ron’s muffins, and the memory wraps him in a warm glow that almost fends off the sting of the bitter wind.

They have just reached the portico when Draco stops so abruptly that Harry almost crashes into him. He turns, eyes flicking anxiously over the snow-covered grounds.

“Have you seen Harold and the others this morning?” he asks.

Casting his mind back, Harry frowns. “No, I haven’t. Is that bad?”

“It’s unusual. They never miss a release—I should have realised earlier.” Draco stares at the cage in his hand and then sets it down on the gravel. “Harold is rather accident-prone. He may require a rescue.”

Something about this understatement makes Harry smile, but his amusement quickly fades when he registers the anxiety in Draco’s eyes.

“Okay, don’t worry. Let’s go and find him. I’ll help,” he offers.

“I’m not worrying,” Draco says, and though Harry doesn’t believe him one little bit, the smile that flickers suddenly around the corners of his mouth seems completely genuine.

“Draco, are you alright?” he asks, baffled.

Draco stares at him and shakes his head slowly. “I can’t believe you haven’t suggested it yet.”

“Suggested what?”

“Using a hoggler to find them,” Draco says, rolling his eyes and stepping around Harry to walk back in the direction of the recovery pens.

Exasperated, Harry hobbles after him as quickly as he can. “You said we couldn’t do that.”

“I said we couldn’t do that to help us find poachers,” Draco calls over his shoulder. “I didn’t say we couldn’t put them to any other use.”

Harry sighs, putting down his crutches and his booted foot faster and faster against the path in an effort to keep up with Draco. As he does so, the realisation that is still wearing the cast after almost nine fucking days slams into him like a well-thrown Quaffle to the face. He stops, staring down at the grubby monstrosity, at his frozen toes and his infuriating crutches. Hermione had asked him for one more day, yes, but somehow, in the excitement of woeful looks and confrontations, it hasn’t yet occurred to him to finally take the bloody thing off.

“Harry? Are you coming?” Draco asks, and the note of panic in his voice pulls Harry back into action.

 _Prioritise_ , he thinks, resuming his frantic hobbling down the path. Find Harold and his friends, rescue them from whatever ridiculous mess they have wandered into, and _then_ deal with his leg. He staggers after Draco with a grim smile, numb toes wiggling in anticipation of freedom and warm socks.

Ahead of him, Draco hurries into the clinic, and when Harry catches up, he emerges with a small, dark blue towel in his hands.

“We need a scent,” he says, sniffing cautiously at the towel and shrugging. “This is Harold’s towel. It should be enough.”

“Should I even ask why he has a towel?”

“You shouldn’t need to,” Draco says, and though he is clearly still anxious, his exasperated affection for the ridiculous pheasant is clear on his face. “He falls into the pond at least once a month. Peter usually gets in and manages to nudge him out, but he always needs drying off and spells seem to make him...”

“Cross?” Harry suggests.

“Fluffy,” Draco sighs. “This has been washed since the last time, but I don’t think that will matter to a hoggler.”

“Okay,” Harry says, making his way over to Melissa’s pen and attempting to push away the very distracting image of a fluffy Harold. “Which one should we choose?”

“Supposedly, it’s all about the ridge,” Draco says thoughtfully, throwing the towel over one shoulder and pulling open the kennel door.

Melissa grunts, opens one eye, and then closes it again. Her piglets are tucked into her side, sleeping peacefully, and Harry smiles to see Briana, still the smallest but catching up quickly to the others.

“What about the ridge?” he asks.

“Well, it’s just folklore, really, but they say that the more pronounced the ridge, the better the tracker,” Draco murmurs, reaching into the pen and picking up a male piglet with a fine ridge of white hair along his back, as well as several finer ridges on each side. “Come on, Corduroy, we have a job for you.”

Harry watches as Draco conjures a soft length of rope and ties it around the piglet’s chunky body in a makeshift harness.

“Have you ever done this before?” Harry asks when Draco reaches for the towel and dangles it in front of Corduroy’s twitching snout.

“Of course not,” Draco says, and then Corduroy takes off at a gallop, jerking Draco’s arm and forcing him to break into a run to keep up.

Harry hastens to follow, hobbling for all he is worth, but when Corduroy and Draco swerve onto the snow-covered lawns, he falls behind, unable to keep up when each step has him sinking and fighting for balance. Frustrated, he plunges on, keeping Draco in sight and focusing his energies on remaining upright. Unfortunately, by the time he is halfway across the lawn, he has fallen twice and though he struggles back onto his crutches each time, he is soon cold and wet and breathing hard.

“Slow down, you little horror!” Draco shouts, and Harry can’t prevent a bubble of unhelpful laughter from escaping.

The piglet is flying over the lawns now, kicking up snow into Draco’s face and dragging him further and further towards the edges of his land, where the trees and hedges fall away and there is nothing but a yawning stretch of featureless white ground. Harry has never been out this far before, and he has no idea what the terrain is like beneath the snow, so he slows slightly, casting a protective charm around his cast and wishing he had thought to do it before the whole thing started to turn soggy.

“Harry!” Draco calls suddenly.

Harry squints at the figures of Draco and Corduroy and realises that they are no longer moving.

“Yeah?”

“They’re here! They’re all alright!” Draco shouts, and the relief in his voice squeezes Harry’s heart.

He makes his way to their position with renewed vigour, picking his way through the snow drifts and pitching up beside a wooden fence that stretches out of sight in both directions. The fence has been blocked up with chicken wire from the other side, and Draco shows him where a small area of damage to the netting has created a hole just large enough for Harold to trap his daft little head.

“You’re an idiot,” Harry tells him. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Harold lets out a rather pathetic sound and Draco wraps him more tightly in his towel, holding him close to his chest as Corduroy, now calm once more, lets the rope slacken and noses around in the snow at his feet.

“He’s fine,” Draco says. “They all are.”

He steps aside to reveal Peter and Chase, who have huddled behind him to shelter from the wind.

“Did they all get stuck?” Harry asks.

“No, just Harold, but they wouldn’t leave him,” Draco explains. “When I got here, they were just sitting there, one at either side of him, looking worried.”

Harry smiles, touched by the strength of friendship between this odd collection of creatures. Gathering his crutches in one hand, he leans down to pick up Peter, who quacks in surprise and pedals his webbed feet in the air until Harry tucks him into his coat and zips it up. The duck is cold and wet and the snow on his feathers quickly soaks through to Harry’s skin, but he doesn’t care. Peter pokes his head out and regards Harry with beady little eyes as he leans down again and scoops up Chase, who is small enough to fit into his coat pocket.

“There,” he says, looking at Draco and daring him to comment.

“Congratulations, you are now a mobile zoo,” Draco says with an odd little smile. He glances at something over Harry’s shoulder. “Do you have a pocket big enough for these ladies, too?”

Harry turns to see a pair of black and white cows ambling towards the fence. When Draco wraps Harold up more securely and goes to examine them, Harry follows, and when the cows poke their great heads over onto the Manor’s side of the fence to get a better look at them, he just stares.

“I thought Ron strengthened all of these wards,” he says, frowning.

Draco laughs. “He did, but they’re designed to repel Muggles, not cows.”

“I didn’t think of it like that,” Harry admits, reaching out to stroke a velvety nose and startling when a raspy tongue flips out to swipe at his skin.

Draco glances at him. “What’s the matter?”

“Her tongue... it’s all rough,” Harry says, allowing the cow to lick him again and snort hot breath over his fingers.

“What did you expect?” Draco asks, clearly amused.

“I don’t know! I’ve never been licked by a cow before, funnily enough,” Harry says.

“City boy,” Draco murmurs, rubbing the cow’s face with the back of his hand.

“Leafy suburb boy, strictly speaking,” Harry says, and Draco’s amused snort makes the back of his neck prickle almost as much as the cold fingers that trail all too briefly through his hair.

While he watches and attempts to keep Peter and Chase under control inside his coat, Draco patches the chicken wire and says goodbye to the cows. They return to the house at a much more civilised pace with Corduroy trotting happily beside them, and when they have returned him to his family and set up the three misadventurers in a temporary, charm-warmed kennel, they retreat at last to the comfortable kitchen in the centre of the house.

Harry sits in a kitchen chair next to the fire, warming his hands and watching Draco as he locates muffins and makes coffee. When he pours the hot water into the cafetiere, the rich, bitter scent of coffee seeps into the room, mingling with the warm smell of toasting bread and the light, lingering perfume that he thinks must belong to Narcissa. Draco seems completely focused on his task and Harry cannot look away from him—from his skin, flushed with cold and glowing in the firelight, his strong, graceful fingers spreading butter and plunging the cafetiere in one slow, deliberate movement, the flicker of his eyebrow as he turns and catches Harry staring.

“Do you want milk?” he asks, voice catching.

“I have no idea,” Harry admits, and when he smiles at Draco helplessly, he smiles back.

They drink their coffee black and steaming, in between bites of muffin and melted butter and breathless glances. Between Draco, the hot coffee and the blazing fire, Harry finds himself pleasantly warmed, and he is just about beginning to feel comfortable again when a violent shiver steals up his left leg and reminds him that his cast, now cold and softened and useless, is still very much in evidence.

“Right, that’s it,” he mutters, drawing his wand. “This is coming off.”

Draco doesn’t say a word, just leaning over to watch as Harry casts a very careful _Diffindo_ and the cast falls to the floor with a wet thump. The air seems to rush against his skin, stinging at the red, raw patches and making him wince. He tries a cautious rotation of his ankle and finds it stiff and sore.

“It’s only been a week,” he says crossly. “It should be fine.”

“It will be fine,” Draco says. “It just needs a little bit of time. It’s not a normal thing to do, you know, wrapping your leg in plaster. You can’t just expect to take that thing off and jump up as though nothing’s happened.”

Harry avoids his eyes, well aware that he had been expecting exactly that.

“I know,” he says after a moment, but he has the feeling Draco doesn’t believe him.

“I think I have just the thing,” Draco says, getting up from the table.

“What?”

“Patience,” he says, and Harry rolls his eyes. “And pig ointment. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Pig ointment,” Harry repeats to the empty kitchen. “Pig ointment?” he asks when Draco returns several minutes later.

“To use on pigs, not made from pigs,” Draco says, as though this somehow answers the question.

He sits in the chair next to Harry’s and places a small tin on the table.

“Cold,” he warns, a split-second before casting a tingling cleaning spell over Harry’s leg from the knee down and then pulling it up onto his lap.

“Are you sure that pig ointment is...” Harry begins and then lapses into silence as Draco begins to stroke the ointment over his skin.

Draco’s eyes are cast firmly into his lap, lips pressed together in concentration, hair falling softly over his forehead as he rubs the ointment into the dry, sore patches and then starts to manipulate the stiff bones and muscles with long, firm presses of his fingers and thumbs. Harry just sits there, dry-mouthed, torn between watching Draco touch him and closing his eyes to relish the sensation. When Draco pushes his thumbs into a spot at the back of his ankle, he gives in, slumping in his chair and suppressing a groan when it hurts in exactly the right way.

He can feel himself melting, aware of nothing but the fire at his back, the medicinal scent of the ointment, and the touch of Draco’s hands. He feels warm, safe, loved, and not even the very real threat of Narcissa Malfoy walking in and interrupting this can ruin the feeling of peace that has, at last, begun to steal over him. Finally, the rubs and presses turn into gentle strokes, and Harry opens his eyes, shivering to find Draco gazing right back at him.

“Thank you,” he says, words catching in his chest.

“Did it help?”

Harry nods.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Draco asks, one hand still resting on Harry’s ankle.

Harry bites his lip. His heart is pounding against his ribcage and the weight of arousal at the base of his spine seems to be pinning him to his chair. He wants to laugh with how much he needs this. Instead, he lowers his foot to the floor and leans over to grab Draco by the wrists, pulling him into a stumble that brings him momentarily to his feet and then to his knees in front of Harry’s chair, where they scramble to meet in the middle.

Draco pushes his fingers into Harry’s hair, smearing ointment over his skin as they reach for each other, colliding in a hot, messy press of mouths and then pulling back, brushing their lips together in slow, aching kisses that burn brightly in Harry’s chest. He release Draco’s wrists and runs his hands over soft wool, pulling him close and burying his face in a warm neck that smells of lemons and damp pheasant.

When they draw apart, there is silence, and Harry thinks it’s quite beautiful. Draco’s eyes are dark and hazy and his breaths are shallow, and all Harry really wants to do is say _fuck patience_ and Disapparate with him to his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, but something stops him. He has never experienced anything like this before, and it feels too good to rush.

“I’d better go,” he says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. “Also, I’m going to be late tomorrow.”

Draco lifts an eyebrow and straightens Harry’s collar. “Oh, really?”

“Yes.” Harry gets to his feet carefully and pulls Draco up with him. “I have things to do.”

“How very mysterious.”

“That’s right. I am extremely mysterious,” Harry says, picking up his crutches, just in case.

“Go on, then, bugger off,” Draco says, folding his arms.

Harry hesitates and then drags him back for one more kiss. “I will. In a minute.”


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Twenty-third of December – A wreath**  
  
  
  
Harry stretches, resting his head against the porcelain and allowing the steaming bath water to lap against his skin. When he had wandered into the bathroom, still wrapped in a heavy, hazy dream involving cold fingers and delicious friction, the world had been completely dark, but now the sky outside the window has begun to lighten to a deep, soft blue.  
  
The hot water feels wonderful against his sore skin and he rotates his ankle carefully beneath the surface, closing his eyes and deciding that he’d quite like to stay exactly where he is for the rest of the day. After all, his wand is within easy reach, and he can cast a warming charm without even having to open his mouth. Then again, he has things to do, and none of them can really wait.  
  
Reluctantly, and taking care on his stiff left foot, Harry hauls himself out of the bath and scrubs himself with a towel as quickly as he can, attempting to struggle into warm clothes before the cold air has a chance to get to him. After a hurried cup of coffee, he wraps up in a long coat and his favourite knitted hat and heads out into the frosty morning. Once in the heart of London, he buys a bacon sandwich from a steamy cafe and eats it on his way to the headquarters of the Benevolent Fund for Magical Creatures. A woman with tinsel in her hair is just unlocking the heavy glass doors as he arrives, and she beams at him before darting behind the reception desk.  
  
“Lovely to see you, Mr Potter, what a wonderful surprise,” she enthuses. “I do hope you’re planning to attend our Christmas ball tomorrow night.”  
  
Harry assures her that he is, and when he leans on the desk and outlines his special request, the receptionist’s smile widens until he begins to worry that it might get stuck that way.  
  
“I’m sorry it’s such short notice,” he says with an apologetic smile. “All I need for now is an announcement at the ball tomorrow. I promise to come back in the new year and sort out the rest. Do you think Mr Birds will go for it?”  
  
“Mr Birds will have a fit!” the receptionist laughs. “That’s a good thing,” she adds. “I’ll go up and see him the moment he comes out of his morning meeting. Is it alright to owl you if he has any questions?”  
  
“Of course. Thank you so much for your help,” Harry says, returning her smile and setting a small, wrapped box of chocolates next to her little brass name plate. “Merry Christmas, Sabrina.”  
  
“Thank you,” she murmurs, surprised. “Merry Christmas, Mr Potter!”  
  
Harry waves to her and lets himself out of the building. One down, he thinks, checking the extension charm on his rucksack and heading for his next destination. He walks slowly, aware of the weakness of his left foot and ankle but determined to build up strength now that he no longer has to rely on his crutches. To his surprise, he finds he misses them, feeling oddly alone without their constant nagging presence, but there is no doubt that it feels good to have both feet back on the ground.  
  
He can hear the music even before the EALS office comes into view, and he knows that Hannah has commandeered the record player, just like she does every Christmas. He also knows that Alexander and Pyotr will be bobbing their heads along with the festive classics despite complaining that they’re awful and insisting that next year they will just hide all her LPs in November.  
  
Amused, he stops outside the office to examine this year’s wreath. Pyotr’s mother crafts dozens of them by hand every Christmas, always saving one for her son’s colleagues. They are, without exception, stunningly beautiful, and Harry takes a moment to appreciate the one that is currently fixed to the front door. Made up of fir branches and pine cones of every size, the wreath stretches out long, spiny arms across the painted wood, criss-crossed and woven and smelling like Christmas morning. Harry touches it gently and wonders what exactly is holding it together.  
  
The sound of laughter drifts down from the open window and he steps back, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting up to his colleagues.  
  
“Hey, mutineers! Your captain wants to speak to you!”  
  
There is a brief scuffle, during which the music is silenced, and then three heads poke out of the first floor window.  
  
“You look good,” Alexander says, and then frowns. “You can’t come in.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry calls. “I was hoping you’d have me back in the new year, though.”  
  
“Absolutely,” Alexander says. “First of January.”  
  
“Second!” Hannah corrects. “There’s no way I’m coming in after the Abbott new year party. I’d be about as useful as a Liquorice Wand.”  
  
Pyotr nods gravely. “I agree with Hannah. The second of January will be the official ends of the mutiny.”  
  
“That sounds fair, I suppose,” Harry says. “Listen, I’ve got some things for you. Maybe one of you could come down and get them?”  
  
Hannah, Pyotr and Alexander exchange glances.  
  
“If we open the door, are you going to try and get inside?” Hannah asks warily.  
  
Harry laughs. “I have no interest in coming inside, I promise you. You should know, though, that these gifts are edible.”  
  
A ripple of interest passes over the faces at the window. After a moment, Pyotr brightens.  
  
“I have an idea.”  
  
He disappears, returning a moment later with what looks a lot like the wicker basket they lower down to the lady from the cafe when everyone concerned is in a rush. It doesn’t take long for Harry to realise that his suspicions are correct, and when the basket is dangled down in front of him, he looks up at his staff with an exasperated smile.  
  
“Seriously?” he sighs, and all three of them stare down at him without a word. “Okay.”  
  
Harry takes off his backpack and unloads multiple boxes of chocolates and caramels and flavour-changing truffles into the basket. When he nods and steps back, Pyotr pulls up the basket and all three of them catch it and drag it inside.  
  
“Harry, you’re wonderful,” Hannah calls. “We do miss you.”  
  
Harry laughs. “I miss you, too. Have a lovely Christmas, all of you, and I don’t want to hear that any of you are working past lunchtime tomorrow, do you hear?”  
  
In the midst of a babble of festive greetings, promises, and a song about reindeer, Harry leaves the EALS office behind. Halfway around Sainsbury’s, he is struck by the realisation that in two short weeks, he will be back at work. He’ll be planning and building and filling in paperwork as though none of the last few weeks ever happened.  
  
He stops in the middle of the biscuit aisle, staring without seeing at piles of shiny tins decorated with painted leaves of holly, feeling numb and barely noticing when a harassed mother rams his trolley with her own. Everything has changed. Everything. He is calmer, happier... he sleeps soundly and wakes up hungry. He walks slowly and breathes deeply and loves a man who takes care of animals, just because he wants to. The thought of losing any of it makes his heart ache and the anxiety he thought had retreated for good reasserts itself forcefully in his stomach. His life has become woven together with Draco’s, and to let it go means nothing less than pulling himself apart.  
  
“You’re blocking the aisle,” someone says irritably, and he moves, wheeling his trolley around in a daze, picking up items and crossing them off his list without seeming to really notice.  
  
Once everything is packed into his rucksack and wrapped in a chilling charm, Harry finds himself a deserted alleyway and Apparates into the Manor grounds. Draco greets him at the top of the drive and then falters at his grim expression. Without a word, he ushers Harry into the house and down to the kitchen, where Narcissa is feeding treats to her army of cats and attempting to ensure that everyone gets enough.  
  
“Hello, Harry,” she says. She frowns. “Is there something wrong?”  
  
Harry lets his rucksack slide to the floor and then sinks into a chair. He feels ridiculous, but now that four sharp Malfoy eyes are fixed upon him, he knows there’s no way out, so he tells Draco and his mother all about his conversation with his colleagues and his moment of panic in the supermarket, and they listen, staying silent until the very end.  
  
At last, he lets out a long breath and shrugs. “That’s it, I suppose.”  
  
Draco passes him a cup of tea that he seems to have spirited out of nowhere and Harry accepts it gratefully.  
  
“That isn’t going to happen,” he says firmly. “Yes, you’ll go back to work, but it won’t be the same. You are not the same.”  
  
Harry glances between them, taking in their identical, calm expressions and then making a concerted effort to pull his breathing into a slow rhythm.  
  
“I don’t feel the same,” he admits.  
  
“Harry, you are barely recognisable,” Narcissa says, bending to pick up a white cat and cradle it against her chest. “It is unthinkable that your life would return to its previous state simply because you had returned to work.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Of course. I do not make a habit of saying things that I do not mean.”  
  
“It’s true,” Draco says with a wry glance at his mother. “Harry, no one is going to let you go back to the way you were. Hermione would have you in St Mungo’s before she’d see you working yourself back into that state, and she wouldn’t be alone.”  
  
“You’d have me banged up, would you?” Harry asks, amused in spite of himself. “Roommates with Lockhart?”  
  
“If necessary,” Draco says, folding his arms, and Harry smiles.  
  
Slowly, he relaxes his muscles and sips his tea, allowing the hot, fragrant liquid to soothe away the last prickles of panic from under his skin. Draco makes a bloody good cup of tea. He is going to miss that when he’s not here all the time. He’s going to miss a lot of things.  
  
“It’ll be strange not to be around animals all the time,” he says, just as a large stripy cat jumps into his lap and starts to pad at his abdomen.  
  
“Don’t you have a pet at home?” Narcissa asks, sounding scandalised.  
  
“Well, strictly speaking, I have an owl, but she doesn’t like me much and I only really see her when I need to send some post,” Harry admits. “I haven’t had a proper pet since Hedwig.”  
  
“Why not?” Draco asks.  
  
Harry hesitates, stung by the memory of losing his old friend. “Lots of reasons, I suppose. When she died, I had other things to worry about, and then I just got used to being on my own. I’m out a lot, obviously, and... I don’t know. It’s really hard to love something that much and then have to let it go.”  
  
“You can’t rattle around in that big old house on your own forever. You’ll go mad,” Draco says, sitting at the table and resting his knee against Harry’s in a gesture of support.  
  
Harry presses back against him, wondering how to tell Draco that he doesn’t really feel alone any more.  
  
“Everyone should have a pet,” Narcissa says, gazing around at her cats. They gaze back with complete adoration, and her face seems to glow with pride.  
  
“Not everyone,” Draco says, expression darkening. “When I got Chase, his owner had thrown him around so much that he could barely move, barely see, and his fur was falling out in clumps. She had no idea that she was doing anything wrong. She said she couldn’t hurt him because animals didn’t have feelings.”  
  
Harry turns to him, horrified. “That’s disgusting,” he says, thinking of Chase’s energy, his shiny fur and his bright little eyes. “You’re right. Some people should not have pets.”  
  
“He is well now, Draco,” Narcissa says softly, gliding across the floor and laying a hand on her son’s shoulder. “And of course, not everyone knows how to take care of an animal. But for those of us who do...” She fixes Harry with a pensive look and then seems to come to a decision. “Come with me, Harry. I’d like to show you something.”  
  
Surprised, Harry looks at Draco.  
  
“Go on, then,” he says, and the sadness in his eyes is almost completely edged out by amused affection. “I’ll be here.”  
  
Harry touches his thigh under the table and then follows Narcissa and her cats up the stairs. She leads him across the entrance hall and into a beautiful parlour with large windows that look out over the sparkling grounds.  
  
“This is Russo, my first cat,” she says, stopping in front of an oil painting of a handsome tabby.  
  
The cat peers out of the painting with curious green eyes and lets out a rumbling purr that startles Harry into taking a backward step. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him that magical portraits of cats might be just as lively as their human counterparts.  
  
“Hello, Russo,” he says hesitantly, and the cat’s ears twitch.  
  
“He died of liver failure,” Narcissa says, lifting her hand to touch the canvas and then directing Harry to a second portrait beside the fireplace. “This is Jean-Luc. I had him for only six months. He was very unwell.”  
  
Harry looks at the tiny grey kitten in the portrait. It mews plaintively and, at their feet, several of Narcissa’s cats mew back. When Harry realises that she is already halfway across the room, he scrambles to catch up. The third painting depicts a large ginger Tom with a rather rakish expression.  
  
“Nelson,” Narcissa says, lips twitching into a small smile. “A wonderful friend. To this day, I do not know how he managed to get out of the house, but we do know that he met his end in one of those awful traps.”  
  
Harry’s stomach lurches. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “At least you won’t have to worry about that any more.”  
  
“Let’s hope not,” Narcissa says. She turns to him, pale eyes intense. “Harry, when you love something, you feel its loss keenly. To love is to risk, but the alternative makes for a poor excuse for a life. You may keep yourself safe from harm, but that is all.”  
  
Caught by the unexpected candour, Harry scrambles for a response as several cats wind around his ankles, binding him to the spot.  
  
“I know,” he says at last. “I realise that now.”  
  
“And how is your romantic life?” she asks, one eyebrow lifting in such a way that Harry feels himself flushing.  
  
He sighs. “I have a feeling that you don’t really need me to answer that.”  
  
Narcissa smiles and turns away. One by one, the cats abandon Harry to follow her and soon, the whole procession has vanished out of sight.  
  
**~*~**  
  
That night, Harry puts on his old jeans and a tatty t-shirt and sets to work on the mini-shed. In a nod to Hannah and her unrelenting festivity, he puts on a record of Christmas carols and kicks up the volume until he can hear the familiar melodies even over his sawing and hammering and drilling. He is soon sweat-sticky and aching, neglected muscles protesting their sudden use, but he pushes on, thinking of Chase and Harold and Peter.  
  
He pauses for tea and leans against the wall of his spare room, regarding the half-finished shed with satisfaction and grinning to himself as he remembers the heated kiss he had shared with Draco before he left the Manor. The scent of lemons is still warm on his skin, and the memory of Draco’s hardness against his hip makes him feel tight and heavy with anticipation. They both know it won’t be long. Harry can almost taste it.  
  
And it’s fine. He doesn’t need to breathe, anyway. He can work with an aching erection pressed up against his fly. He can hammer nails into wood without smashing his fingers. He’s a fucking professional.  
  
When the final touches have been put in place, Harry steps back to admire his work. He stretches, easing the kinks out of his back, and silences the music with a lazy flick of his hand. He may not have finished the shed Draco asked for, but he has the feeling that he’ll be happy with this one for now.  
  
Impulsively, Harry points his wand at the little shed and concentrates hard, finally conjuring a perfect little replica of the fir wreath made by Pyotr’s mother. It flares and twists slowly, settling into place above the entrance and lending the whole thing a rather homely air.  
  
Satisfied, he closes the door on the messy room and heads upstairs. He thinks he’s earned another bath.


	24. Chapter Twenty-four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Twenty-fourth of December – Man wearing a scarf**  
  
  
  
Harry pauses at the top of the driveway, putting out a hand to stop the invisible mini-shed before it floats right into the backs of his legs. He looks around for any sign of Draco, and then, when he is satisfied that the coast is clear, he walks quietly around the side of the house. Sandrine emerges from the clinic and gives him a curious look, but when he puts a finger to his lips, she grins and copies him, hanging back in the doorway to watch him creep by.  
  
Once safely out of sight, Harry slows his pace, warm excitement flickering in his chest as he looks around for the perfect place to set down his burden. After some consideration, he chooses a spot right on the edge of the woods where the little house will receive the warmth of the sunrise while also benefitting from the shelter of several large oak trees. Humming to himself, he lowers the shed to the ground and whips away his cloak to reveal the pointed roof and neat, slatted frame. The interior is clean and warm, stuffed with fresh hay and built-in dispensers for food and water. It’s a perfect little shelter for three friends who aren’t quite sure if they are wild animals or domestic pets, and Harry is rather proud of it.  
  
Strictly speaking, of course, the mini-shed is a Christmas gift for Draco, and as such he should not have it before tomorrow, but despite all that has happened between them in the last few days, Harry has no idea about Draco’s plans for Christmas Day, much less whether or not they involve him. All he does know is that his presence is definitely required at the Burrow for lunch, and it’s going to take more than a little bit of uncertainty to make him disappoint Molly on her biggest cooking day of the year.  
  
Taking one last look at the little shed, Harry casts a Disillusionment Charm over the whole area, shoves his wand into his pocket and carefully folds his cloak back into his rucksack. He is now ready, at a moment’s notice, to reveal his gift to Draco, and in the meantime, he has absolutely no excuse not to put in some work on his main project. The original shed seems enormous and almost intimidating by comparison, but Harry pushes away his doubts and sets to work. He rolls up his sleeves and throws himself into his task, securing the existing framework with a battery of spells and then building onto it with sturdy panels and layers of protective magic.  
  
Draco arrives with cups of tea just as Harry is negotiating a complicated section of curved wall which demands that he lie twisted on his back on the cold ground, one hand braced against the wood and the other, holding his wand, pressed almost flush to his face. He is squinting, muttering curses under his breath and covered in mud and bits of rotten leaves, and Draco’s dry laughter doesn’t help the situation one bit.  
  
“Not that you don’t seem to have that completely under control,” he says, crunching over to Harry’s side and peering down at him, “but perhaps you’d like a break and a cup of tea.”  
  
Harry lets the spell go with a groan and rolls himself into a sitting position. He shakes the leaves out of his hair and rubs a stripe of mud from his cheek.  
  
“That sounds like a good idea.”  
  
He accepts the steaming cup from Draco, watching delightedly as he stares over at the small patch of distorted air by the edge of the wood.  
  
“What on earth is that?” he murmurs, stalking over to examine it.  
  
The moment he turns his back, Harry dispels the Disillusionment Charm and Draco stops in his tracks. He stares at the little shed for long seconds and then turns to Harry.  
  
“Does this have something to do with you?” he asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion.  
  
Harry laughs and gets to his feet. “Who else?”  
  
“It’s a tiny little shed,” Draco says, turning to stare at it again.  
  
“Yeah. It’s for Harold and Chase and Peter to sleep in when it’s cold or raining or... just if they feel like it, I suppose,” Harry explains. “It doesn’t look like much but it’s bigger on the inside. I used the same extension charms I’m going to use on your shed when it’s finished.”  
  
Draco smiles slowly, still looking so astonished that Harry can’t help winding an arm around his waist and tugging him over to have a closer look.  
  
“You made a shelter... for them?” Draco says incredulously.  
  
“Well, it’s for you, too. I didn’t know what to get you for Christmas so I hope this will do,” Harry says. “I thought you might as well have it now, and...”  
  
His words are cut off as Draco turns and kisses him, pulling him close for the briefest moment and then holding him at arm’s length, eyes flitting over his muddy clothes, his damp, tangled hair and the layer of sawdust sticking to his skin.  
  
Draco steps back and drinks his tea, eyes never leaving Harry’s. “Thank you,” he says at last.  
  
Harry smiles. “You’re welcome. Though I do sense a ‘but’.”  
  
“Not a ‘but’, merely an ‘and’,” Draco says. “Thank you, and it’s lunchtime, so you should stop working now.”  
  
“Is it?” Harry asks, surprised, and before Draco can answer, his stomach rumbles loudly. Amused, he packs up his things and casts a bubble of protective magic over the building site before accompanying Draco down the path. “What are we having?”  
  
“Sandrine and I are having croque monsieurs,” Draco says. “You are going home to make yourself look presentable.”  
  
Affronted, Harry attempts a scowl. “If you’re talking about the ball tonight...”  
  
“I am,” Draco says.  
  
“The one that doesn’t start for about seven hours,” Harry continues.  
  
“The very same.”  
  
“Draco, please don’t tell me that you actually think it will take that long for me to get myself ready,” Harry sighs. He looks at his grimy fingernails and opts to shove his hands into his pockets. “I know I’m a bit dirty right now but seriously?”  
  
“Oh, I’m completely serious,” Draco says, but the light in his eyes tells another story, one that makes Harry’s skin prickle and his imagination go into overdrive. “Go home, wash the woods off yourself and make yourself look like the Harry Potter who gives inspirational speeches for worthy causes. I will meet you at the main entrance at half past seven. If you are late, I will personally see to it that the Undersecretary of Bore is re-seated at our table.”  
  
“But then you’d have to speak to him, too,” Harry points out.  
  
“That is a sacrifice I am prepared to make,” Draco says grandly, and with a brief, heart-wrenching smile, he disappears into the clinic, leaving Harry on the path.  
  
With the feeling that he is being watched, he turns slowly to find that the big cross trout is staring morosely at him as it floats in its tank of water.  
  
“Cheer up,” Harry mutters. “It’s Christmas.”  
  
The fish opens its mouth slowly and then closes it again.  
  
Harry shrugs. “You know... or not.”  
  
“Harry!” Sandrine calls, dashing out of the clinic on glittering red stilettos that shed sparkles with every step. “I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”  
  
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” he says, surprised when she hugs him, seeming not to notice his dishevelled state. He hugs her back, smiling through the swathes of red and green-streaked hair that tumble across his face.  
  
When she pulls back, she looks at him and laughs. “Draco said you were filthy. He’s such a fusspot.”  
  
“I’ve been cleaner,” Harry admits. “Still, it’s nice to be able to do something at last.”  
  
“Well, there’s no rush now,” Sandrine says with a grin.  
  
Harry sighs. “I suppose he tells you everything, doesn’t he?”  
  
Sandrine shrugs. “He doesn’t need to. You make each other happy,” she says, signing along with her words. “Draco is happy and I’m grateful to you for that. Plus, I made a new friend. Everything is good.”  
  
Harry smiles at her. “You know, I think it might be.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry pulls off his dirty clothes and steps straight into the shower, scrubbing at his skin with soap and a loofah until he is completely clean and washing his hair twice just for good measure. Despite Draco’s words, he knows exactly how long it takes for him to get ready for a function, and he has never felt less like rushing. Instead, he lays out his dress robes on the bed and then changes into comfortable jeans and a clean t-shirt for the afternoon.  
  
In the kitchen, he lingers in the pantry, looking with satisfaction at his well-stocked shelves for several minutes before loading his arms with the vegetables and spices required for a hearty, warming soup. As he peels and chops and stirs, he shifts back and forth to the rhythm of the rousing carol that has managed to worm its way into his head, and by the time the savoury, fragrant smells fill the kitchen, he is beginning to feel light with festivity and anticipation. The particular brand of excitement is one that he hasn’t felt in quite some time, the feeling of magic in the air and the knowledge that something wonderful is about to happen. He can’t quite decide if it’s Christmas or Draco or a strange and intoxicating mixture of the two, but it doesn’t matter.  
  
Tonight is everything, somehow, and he can’t keep the smile from his face.  
  
At six o’clock, Harry freshens his robes with an airing charm and starts to put them on. At five past six, he replaces them on the bed and gives in to the urge to run himself a bath. He might be clean, but he’s vibrating with nerves and despite three bowls of his homemade soup, his stomach is as unsettled as ever. The bath water is hot and soothing with the clean scent of sage but he can’t quite stop himself from fidgeting, wondering what the fuck Draco is up to and whether Sandrine and Narcissa are in on it, too.  
  
At ten minutes to seven, he stops staring at himself in the mirror and sits in his favourite chair by the fire, taking care not to crease his robes. At five minutes to seven, there is a knock at the door. He frowns, irritated, and decides to ignore it, but the knock comes again, louder this time. Reluctant to answer the door in his dress robes, Harry hesitates, but when the person on his doorstep begins to really hammer the wood with their first, he capitulates, pulling the door open and finding that all words have deserted him.  
  
“Oh, look, you’re ready,” Draco says, mouth twitching into a ruinous half smile. “Now aren’t you glad I sent you home early?”  
  
“I thought we were meeting at the thing,” Harry says, feeling the name of the venue flying right out of his head.  
  
“Yes, well, I thought about how you felt arriving at the last one on your own and decided you might prefer...” Draco pauses, nose wrinkling.  
  
“An escort?” Harry jokes weakly.  
  
“Some company,” Draco says. “Are you ready to go?”  
  
Harry nods but doesn’t let go of the door handle. In fact, he can’t quite tear his eyes away from Draco, who is dressed from head to toe in black with only a soft, forest green scarf breaking the elegant monochrome palette. His long, tailored coat is buttoned almost up to his neck, collar turned up slightly and brushing against the ends of his hair, and the green wool makes his pale skin appear luminescent. His eyes are silver bright in the darkness of the street and they burn into Harry’s, throwing all of his needs and wants right back to him and stealing his breath.  
  
Mouth dry, Harry swallows and nods. He checks his pockets for wand and money and then steps back to allow Draco into the hallway for Disapparation.  
  
They arrive at the gates of a beautiful, ivy-covered house made of red bricks and pointy little corners. Harry sticks to Draco’s side, barely even noticing when the people walking behind them begin to gossip none-too-quietly about both of them. He doesn’t care, because he’s extremely fucking proud to be with Draco, and if he wants to reach out and grab his hand, he can. And he does. And Draco’s astonishment is worth anything the _Daily Prophet_ will no doubt have to say about it.  
  
When they find their table and realise that they have, in fact, been seated with the Undersecretary, Draco groans out loud.  
  
“I shouldn’t have even joked about it,” he sighs, picking up the little place-card. “We’re going to need a lot of wine to get through this.”  
  
“No,” Harry says suddenly.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because you don’t really like wine anyway, and I think I want to remember everything tonight,” Harry says, flushing when Draco’s eyes darken.  
  
“Butterbeer, then?” he says, arching an eyebrow. “For old times’ sake?”  
  
Harry laughs. “Sounds good.”  
  
When Draco returns, Harry sips his Butterbeer from a frosted goblet and looks around at yet another exquisitely decorated room. Soft music swirls to the rafters, and soon the floor will be full of dancing couples, setting their feet down against a gleaming surface that has been enchanted to look just like a sheet of ice. As he leans closer and tries to decide exactly how it has been done, someone calls his name from the other side of the ballroom. He looks up to see Sabrina from the BFMC waving at him delightedly and wearing a silver dress that is covered in sequins. He waves back.  
  
“She’s from the charity,” Draco says. “I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”  
  
“No,” Harry says quickly. “It’s just that she... well...”  
  
He is saved from having to answer by the arrival of two neatly-dressed people at their table. Harry’s relief is short-lived, however, as the man pulls up a chair next to him and immediately launches into an update on the saga of his office redecoration. His wife rolls her eyes and sits next to Draco. The next time Harry manages to dart a glance at him, he is nodding politely while the Undersecretary’s wife talks at length. He cannot hear her above the music, but she barely seems to need to breathe. Draco shoots him a beleaguered look and Harry hides a smile, wondering what their conversations look like when they are alone, whether they ignore one another completely or simply carry on with their own agenda whenever the other one pauses for breath.  
  
Before long, the table is full, and the first few couples are venturing out onto the dance floor. Harry and Draco exchange longing glances over the shoulders of their conversational partners, neither of whom seem to notice that their gabbling is going mostly unheard. When the food arrives, they carry on, pushing the delicious courses around on their plates in favour of continuous droning. By the time dessert arrives, Harry has completely given up on offering the occasional ‘hmm’ and ‘yes’ and is instead concentrating on the small miracle in front of him: a rich, dark chocolate mousse with sour cherry sauce and a zing of something sweet and effervescent that he can’t quite identify.  
  
“It’s a pissing wizard counter,” Draco mouths, and Harry snorts.  
  
“You can only imagine how much hassle the waterproofing charms were,” says the Undersecretary.  
  
“What?” Harry mouths back, thinking that Sandrine’s lipreading skills would be useful right now.  
  
Draco smiles and takes a pen from his pocket, scribbling something on a silent auction card and flicking it across the table at him. Neither the Undersecretary nor his wife even seem to notice.  
  
Harry looks at the card, where Draco has written:  
  
_It’s Fizzing Whizzbee powder_.  
  
That makes more sense, he thinks, tucking the card into his robes and grinning at Draco. With that information in mind, he finishes his dessert and just about resists eating the one left untouched by the Undersecretary. When at last the lights go up for the award ceremony, Harry thinks he has gone temporarily deaf. He soon realises that the Undersecretary has merely stopped talking, and is now patting Harry on the shoulder and rising from his chair.  
  
“Goodness, Harry, you mustn’t keep me talking for so long,” he says, no trace of humour in his tone. “I’m presenting an award in a moment, I must go. Come along, Cora.”  
  
“Right, sorry,” Harry mumbles, watching them out of sight and then turning to Draco with a weary sigh. “What did I do to deserve that, exactly?”  
  
Draco shakes his head, staring at his goblet as though traumatised. “I don’t know. I have, however, learned more about women’s intimate health problems than I ever realised I wanted to.”  
  
Harry cringes. “Okay, you win.”  
  
“Do you think they’ll come back after the awards?” Draco asks, glancing at the stage.  
  
“How about... if they do, then we bugger off?” Harry suggests. “I’m not doing a speech anyway.”  
  
Draco doesn’t answer. He is gazing over at the presenter, who is now giving her welcome address, and though she appears to have his full attention, Harry is pretty sure that the tiny, flickering smile is for him. Tangled up in longing, he forces his eyes away from Draco and focuses as much as he can on the ceremony, listening to the nominations for various awards and applauding when the winners walk onto the stage. Predictably, the Undersecretary manages to drag out his presenting slot to twice the length of all the others, but at last the final award has been given out and the main presenter returns, waiting for the storm of clapping to die down before making her announcement.  
  
Harry pulls tight, allowing himself to look at Draco now. He is watching the presenter with calm interest, sipping his Butterbeer and reclining elegantly in his chair.  
  
“Just before we conclude this part of the evening and get the dancing underway, I’d like to announce the creation of a brand new award,” the presenter says, beaming. “As we all know, conservation is a vital part of protecting magical creatures and their habitats. We have been awarding grants and accolades for conservation projects related to the Ministry and various other charitable foundations for over two hundred years, but this award is different. We would like to recognise the efforts made by individuals and communities to protect magical and non-magical wildlife in their own backyards, their parks and gardens and shared spaces. This award has been sponsored by an anonymous benefactor and will be up for nominations in February next year. In the meantime, please join me in a round of applause for the Briana Harold Award for Conservation in the Community.”  
  
The room bursts into a wave of appreciative noises and Harry claps along, grinning at the look of utter astonishment on Draco’s face. Slowly, he meets Harry’s eyes, blinking rapidly.  
  
“This was the mysterious thing you were doing yesterday?” he asks.  
  
“Maybe,” Harry says, quite unable to control his smile.  
  
Draco regards him steadily for a long time. When he speaks again, the applause has faded and the band has begun to play once more.  
  
“You did this for me.”  
  
“Yes, of course. I didn’t think you’d appreciate me naming it after you,” Harry says.  
  
Draco shudders. “Good grief, no. I’m not really accustomed to people doing things for me,” he admits, fiddling with his glass. “I’m not sure what to say.”  
  
“Well, do you like it?”  
  
“Of course I like it, you idiot. It’s just about the most thoughtful and wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”  
  
Harry shrugs. “Well, ‘thank you’ will do it for me.”  
  
Draco fixes him with an exasperated look. “Well, obviously, _thank you_ , but it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s more than just ‘thank you’ and then there’s the little shed and the big one and everything else that you’ve done... I’m feeling rather lacking and I’m not sure how to redress the balance.”  
  
Harry scrubs at his hair and stares at Draco. “Really? You’re concerned that... what? That you haven’t done enough for me? Are you kidding?”  
  
“No,” Draco says crossly, and Harry leans across the table to link their fingers together.  
  
“You’re insane. That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. You’ve given me my life back. You’ve taught me how to just... be. You’ve made me so many cups of tea that I’ve lost count. You’ve just... you’re... I love you, okay, and all these little things are just me trying to show you that.”  
  
Harry falls silent, wishing he could have the words back and perhaps rearrange them in a more articulate way. Draco regards him in silence for so long that he thinks he is going to burst, but when he leans close, Harry can hear the hitch in his breathing, and the words that are whispered against his neck are warm and clear.  
  
“You know that I love you, don’t you?”  
  
“I hoped,” Harry mumbles, feeling Draco’s smile against his skin and shivering when he sits back in his chair.  
  
“Do you think they’re coming back?” Draco asks, looking around for their dining companions.  
  
Harry’s heart is full and his cock is aching and he doesn’t give a shit what the Undersecretary and his wife have planned for the rest of the evening. He wants Draco and he doesn’t care who knows it.  
  
“I don’t know. Let’s just go anyway.”  
  
Draco’s smile burns through Harry in an instant. “I’ve waited this long, Harry,” he says easily.  
  
Harry closes his eyes for a moment. The music and the shimmering dance floor and the milling people seem to be conspiring to blur his senses, and in the middle of everything, only Draco remains in focus.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to leave?” he asks, each word feeling like a massive effort.  
  
Draco gets up from his chair and gazes down at Harry. “I’ll get our coats.”  
  
Heart swooping, Harry watches him out of sight and then excuses himself from the table, winding his way through the crowds and out into the grounds. The night air is shockingly cold against his skin, but then Draco’s hand is warm in his and he is fortified, reaching for his wand and transporting them both into his bedroom.  
  
“You’re always in a rush,” Draco mumbles against his lips, but he’s smiling and he doesn’t resist when Harry takes their folded coats and flings them onto an chair, wrapping his hands around Draco’s hips and pushing him up against the wall.  
  
“I’m working on my patience, I assure you,” Harry says breathlessly, pressing his mouth into the angle of Draco’s jaw and swallowing a groan when he seems to tremble at the touch.  
  
Swept up in the thrill of finally pushing this calm, gathered man off balance, Harry lets himself go, closing his eyes and capturing Draco’s mouth, pouring his fear and need into a hot, desperate kiss that roars through his body like a wildfire. Draco kisses back, strong fingers threading into his hair and pulling tight until Harry gasps at the sting and jerks his hips, causing a wave of maddening friction that drags a low groan from both of them.  
  
Harry pulls back, breathing hard, and allows himself a second or two to appreciate Draco’s expression of protest before he grins and reaches for the fastenings of his dress robes, fumbling with a set of fiddly little buttons before finally pushing them open and letting them fall from Draco’s shoulders in a pool of dark fabric. Draco stares down at him as he drops to his knees, fingers tightening in Harry’s hair again as he divests him slowly of trousers, shoes, socks and boxers, leaving him hard and exposed in only his crisp white shirt and silk tie.  
  
Harry looks up at him, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach as he meets pale eyes bright with desire. Draco’s mouth is slightly open, releasing ragged breaths into the cold air, his skin is flushed and his cock is full and hard against Harry’s palm. Draco is his, and the thought of waiting for even another minute is blown to pieces when he looks down at Harry and smiles slowly.  
  
“I hardly think this is fair,” he says, glancing at his clothes on the floor and then at Harry, who is still fully dressed.  
  
“I’m nothing much to look at, I assure you,” Harry mumbles, pressing his face to Draco’s hip and breathing in his warm scent.  
  
“I’ll be the judge of that, I think.”  
  
Harry smiles against his skin and then pulls back. “Okay. In a minute, though, I just need to...”  
  
He breaks off, wrapping a hand around Draco’s erection and finally giving in to the heavy, insistent need to take Draco’s cock into his mouth, feel the warm weight of it on his tongue, taste his arousal and revel in the shudder and the whimper that shakes Draco’s whole body. He is doing that. He is making that happen. His mouth and his hands and his fingernails grazing over Draco’s skin. The realisation hits Harry in a cascade and he is trembling all over, sliding his mouth over Draco’s cock and holding him tightly, pressing him against the wall and taking him deeper with every stroke.  
  
Draco groans and pushes back against him, and Harry is shivering, he’s so cold, but it doesn’t matter, and it isn’t until Draco shudders and swears and comes in his mouth that he opens his eyes and realises that he is completely naked.  
  
Slowly, he draws back and looks around, frowning. “Draco, where are my clothes?”  
  
Draco leans against the wall, eyes closed and arms dangling loosely at his sides.  
  
“You were taking too long to remove them,” he says at last. “So I Vanished them.”  
  
Harry gets to his feet and leans against him, still hard and insistent and pressed between them.  
  
“That was my only set of dress robes,” he says, trying not to sound amused.  
  
Draco opens his eyes. “I know. I’ve watched you wearing them for the best part of ten years. Don’t you think it’s time you bought some more?”  
  
Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that, but it doesn’t matter because Draco is taking his hand and tugging him over to the bed.  
  
“Your house is fucking arctic,” he says, casting off his shirt and tie before crawling under the quilt. He pulls Harry down until he settles in the space between his legs, weight on his elbows and faces inches apart. “We need to do something about that before I freeze to death.”  
  
“Now?” Harry asks, pressing his face to Draco’s neck in order to hide his smile at the casual use of the word ‘we’ and the accompanying thought of many more evenings just like this one.  
  
“No, not now,” Draco says, and then he is pulling Harry close, drawing him into long, languid kisses, shifting beneath to slide hips and chests and thighs together and creating a soft sort of heat that melts every unimportant thought from Harry’s mind.  
  
Draco’s mouth brushes over his lips, diverting to explore his shoulder or his neck until Harry can stand it no longer and he spreads his fingers over Draco’s jaw and brings him back with a sigh of relief. Harry breathes slowly, inhaling citrus and clean sheets, arousal and the cold night air that fills his bedroom. At the base of his spine, his need for release lies heavy and still, making every touch feel like the last he can take. When Draco’s cock grows hard against his own once more, he knows he can’t wait another second.  
  
He doesn’t stop kissing Draco for a moment as he grabs the glass jar from his bedside and gathers the warm-smelling contents on his fingers. Acting only on instinct, he slides a hand between them and pushes slowly into Draco, feeling the twitch of his cock and the catch of his breath as he strokes inside. Again and again, their lips brush together in rhythm with Harry’s fingers, slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, until Draco is flushed and mumbling against Harry’s mouth.  
  
“Come on,” he pants, fingernails digging into Harry’s back. “Please.”  
  
Harry groans as the words go straight to his cock and he is forced to wrap a slippery hand around himself for control.  
  
“Now who’s rushing?” he asks, pushing his fingers so deep inside Draco that he cries out.  
  
“Me. I’m rushing,” Draco gasps. “Because if you don’t stop that I’m going to come and I want you.”  
  
Harry stares at him, quite unable to move for a moment. Finally, aching and shivering, he withdraws his fingers, shifts position beneath the quilt, and, in one long, slow stroke, he pushes inside Draco. They cling to one another, caught in the sensation, and it is only when Draco seems to melt into the mattress that he starts to move.  
  
_Patience_ , he thinks vaguely, pulling his hips back and then pushing them forward in deliberate, unhurried strokes. Draco twists his fingers into the bedclothes and lifts into every slide, grasping around Harry with a strength that startles him. When his cock starts to twitch against his belly, he opens his eyes and stares into Harry, making him groan and thrust into him harder. He presses his palm against Draco’s cock, surprised when he tightens hotly around Harry and comes all over himself in hard, rough waves that seem to shake him to his core.  
  
With the quilt hot at his back and the sight of Draco beneath him, trembling and sticky with his own release, Harry lets his patience slip away. Burning up, he grabs Draco’s hips and pushes into him in a frenzied, erratic rhythm, feeling his release rising inside him and coming with Draco’s fingers digging into his buttocks, dragging him in deep and encouraging each slowing stroke until he collapses in a breathless heap.  
  
He closes his eyes, feeling those fingers sliding up his back and coming to rest in his hair. He wonders if Draco can breathe underneath his dead weight, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining. For what seems like a wonderfully long time, the room is silent. Harry presses his mouth to Draco’s chest and breathes steadily. The wind whirls around the house, ruffling tree branches and searching for cracks in the brickwork. Draco shifts on his pillow and looks around the bedroom with interest.  
  
“Harry?” he says at last.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“What in the name of arse is in all of these boxes?”  
  
Harry twists, ignoring the twinging protests of his stiff ankle, and looks at the stacks of things that form an unofficial ‘to be sorted’ pile on his bedroom floor. He’s been living in chaos for a long time now, and the plan to organise the house is very much a work in progress, but he has the sneaking suspicion that with Draco around, it won’t be that way for long.  
  
“Stuff,” he says, laying his head on Draco’s warm shoulder. “Stuff and things.”  
  
“It’s worse than Ollivander’s storeroom in here,” Draco says, but he settles back on his pillow. “How do you sleep?”  
  
Harry yawns. “Easily, I imagine, after that. You’ll just have to stay every night,” he says, and he can feel Draco’s smile.  
  
“It’s two minutes to midnight, did you know?”  
  
“I did not. Better go to sleep or Father Christmas won’t come,” Harry says sleepily. He shifts closer to Draco under the quilt as a wave of soft contentment starts to drag him into unconsciousness.  
  
“I’ve got what I want,” Draco says, and Harry smiles against his skin.


	25. Chapter Twenty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s life is full of care, he has no time to stop or stare; he has no time for anyone’s shit, until his friends aren’t having it. A story about the unravelly things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all having a wonderful holiday season, full of sparkle and delicious things. Thank you for being with me on this year's advent trundle and again, thank you SO MUCH for all your wonderful comments. You are lovely and brilliant and have made me smile every day. Hugs and bubbly drinks for all <3

**Twenty-fifth of December – A decorated Christmas tree**  
  
  
  
The sound of creaking footsteps rouses Harry and he opens his eyes to see Draco standing at the edge of the bed, carrying two steaming cups and looking wonderfully dishevelled. Harry smiles and stretches under his heavy quilt as the previous night creeps through his veins and spreads tingling warmth all the way out to his fingertips.  
  
“You made tea,” he sighs happily.  
  
“Yes, and you had milk that was still usable. I’m impressed,” Draco says, setting down the mugs on the bedside cabinet before shedding his shirt and climbing into bed.  
  
“I have all sorts of things,” Harry says, gasping when cold skin is pressed against him without warning. “I have been shopping and everything.”  
  
“So I see. I like your Christmas tree, too,” Draco says, flattening himself along Harry’s back and kissing his shoulder. “It has some very strange decorations on it, but I don’t know why I should be surprised about that.”  
  
Harry frowns. “I don’t have a Christmas tree.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Draco says, and Harry opens his mouth to protest, but then there are warm lips against the back of his neck and fingertips brushing over his belly and he can’t quite remember what he was planning to say.  
  
Draco’s movements are lazy and unhurried, light touches that send shivers over Harry’s skin and light a fire inside him, skilful fingers grazing the length of his cock until he is groaning and panting for more, face pressed into his pillow and eyes closed. Nothing has ever felt so natural, so heavy with relief and contentment and Draco’s hands on his back, soothing and maddening all at once. He hears the scrape of metal on glass and then Draco is easing him open, nudging him onto his stomach and pressing inside him, first with his fingers and then with his cock.  
  
He pins Harry to the bed with his full weight, trapping his leaking cock against the mattress and fucking him with long, deep strokes until he clenches his fingers into the pillows and cries out, hanging onto the rhythm of Draco’s pushes inside him and the delicious, dragging friction of his cock against the sheets. He comes hard, gasping and jerking against the bedclothes, just as Draco grips his hips and finds his own release with a shuddering groan.  
  
Harry lies still for long seconds, pressing his heated face into the pillow and waiting for the aftershocks of his orgasm to fade. Draco pulls away carefully, and after a moment, a cool cleaning spell flutters over Harry’s skin. He rolls over, all at once feeling self-conscious, only to be pulled into a kiss that takes him by surprise and tastes suspiciously like mint and chocolate.  
  
“Have you been in my biscuit tin?” he asks.  
  
Draco shrugs, picking up his cup of tea. “I was just looking.”  
  
“Yeah, with your mouth,” Harry says, flopping back onto his pillow and grinning. “Those are my new Christmas... hang on a minute—did you say something about a Christmas tree?”  
  
“Yes, I said it was very nice,” Draco says mildly.  
  
Harry frowns at him. He feels far too warm and satisfied to muster any real suspicion that Draco might be going mad, but he thinks he ought to go and see for himself, just as soon as he has regained the use of his legs.  
  
“You should drink this while it’s hot,” Draco says, passing him his cup of tea.  
  
He takes it, deciding that another five minutes and an injection of caffeine certainly won’t hurt.  
  
“I’ll still love you, you know,” he says, sipping his tea.  
  
Draco lifts an eyebrow. “You’ll still love me if what?”  
  
“If you do turn out to be losing your marbles,” Harry says.  
  
Draco sighs. Harry sighs back. Ten minutes later, he heaves himself out of the warm bed and into the freezing room, quickly wrapping up in a thick robe and finding another at the back of his closet for Draco. He walks down the stairs, into the living room, and stops dead. In the corner of the room, between the fireplace and the window, is an enormous fir tree. Despite being slightly bent, the top of it still manages to rest against the ceiling, and the whole thing is absolutely covered in decorations that Harry has never seen before. He’s pretty sure that one of the boxes in the bedroom contains a set of lights and a few mismatched baubles, but these just sing with newness and quality, and the lights that drape over the branches are a tasteful warm white.  
  
“Where the fuck did that come from?” Harry mutters, glancing around as though the answer will pop up from behind a piece of furniture.  
  
“You actually mean to say that you didn’t know it was here?” Draco asks.  
  
“It wasn’t here last night when you came over before the ball,” Harry says, turning to search his eyes for signs of secret amusement but finding nothing there besides confusion.  
  
Cautiously, Harry approaches the tree. He touches the branches and scatters pine needles all over his feet. He inhales the fresh, Christmassy scent. He pulls out his wand and casts a series of detection charms over the whole area. Finally, satisfied that it really is just a tree, he turns to Draco.  
  
“There’s nothing weird about it. Which sort of makes it even more bizarre.”  
  
Draco frowns and bends to pick something up from the foot of the tree.  
  
“Here,” he says, passing a square white envelope to Harry. “Perhaps it’s an explanation.”  
  
The envelope merely reads ‘Harry’, but the sight of Hermione’s handwriting is enough to untangle some of the confusion immediately. He opens the card inside and reads aloud.  
  
“Dear Harry. We couldn’t help noticing that you still don’t have a Christmas tree. We understand that you didn’t want to waste a tree when it wasn’t going to be seen, but thought you might be able to give this one a home. This is a rescue tree. We got it from the garden centre at five minutes before closing on Christmas Eve. It’s a little bit bent and a little bit spindly, but it still has a lot of festivity to share with you. The decorations are part of your gift this year and have been chosen by all of us. You might even find some that we have had a hand in making, just for you. If you take care of them, they will maintain your Christmas spirit for years to come. Lots of love, Hermione, Ron, and Rose.”  
  
Harry stares at the message, eyes stinging, suddenly desperate to see his friends and give all of them an enormous hug.  
  
“Your friends really are very special,” Draco says, sounding so wistful that Harry aches for him.  
  
“Our friends,” he insists, pulling Draco close to him and smiling when arms come up to wrap around his waist.  
  
“Good grief, is that Peter?” Draco asks suddenly, and they draw apart to gaze at the tree.  
  
Sure enough, hanging on a branch at eye level, is a fabric decoration in the shape of a duck. The whole thing has been smothered in pink felt tip pen with slightly more determination than accuracy, and Harry laughs, imagining Rose colouring away, little face screwed up in concentration.  
  
“I think it is,” Harry says. “And there’s Chase and Harold!”  
  
Just below Peter hangs a tiny black pompom with stick-on googly eyes, and above him, a rather convincing pheasant that has been encrusted with sequins.  
  
“What are these?” Draco frowns, reaching out a hand to touch a set of tiny blue police boxes all hung in a row.  
  
“They’re TARDISes,” Harry says. “They’re... it might be easier if you ask Ron about them the next time you see him. He’ll explain it better.”  
  
“If you say so,” Draco mumbles. He trails his fingers over vast glass baubles with magical snow inside them, cascades of shimmering stars, lifelike dragons that release tiny puffs of smoke when touched, a silver doe and stag, a saw and a hammer in glittering red and green, and enough enchanted tinsel to cover both of them from head to foot.  
  
When he turns back to Harry, his skin is strewn with sparkles in all different colours.  
  
“I have to go and deal with the animals,” he says. “And my mother will be most put out if I don’t return in time to make Christmas lunch with her.”  
  
“I know,” Harry says, and though he can’t quite squash the urge to drag Draco and the biscuit tin back to bed and stay there for the rest of the day, he finds a smile for him, knowing that he has plans and commitments of his own, and also knowing that when those things are over, all of this will be waiting for him.  
  
Change may be coming, and there are definitely still plenty of things to work out, but he finally feels ready for them. He is strong. He is learning. He has Draco, and Draco is going nowhere. He’s a tall, solid tree in the middle of a cool wood. A silver birch, perhaps, slender and resilient with the occasional rough edge to remind a person who might forget that he is very much alive.  
  
“No rush,” Draco says, echoing his smile.  
  
“Exactly,” Harry says, focusing on the iridescent particles on the pale skin and attempting to push all unhelpful tree-related analogies to the back of his mind. “I don’t know how much use I’ll be to you once Molly has stuffed me full of food, but I’ll be here if you want to come back.”  
  
“No,” Draco says, gazing at the glimmering tree. “Come to the Manor. I have a gift for you and it might be a little bit difficult to transport.”  
  
Intrigued, Harry shrugs. “Okay.”  
  
Draco kisses him and heads for the stairs in search of his clothes. Halfway up, he pauses.  
  
“Do you think she came before midnight?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Hermione. Do you think she came here before midnight, thinking we’d still be at the ball?” Draco says, a look of quiet horror settling over his face.  
  
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Harry mutters, prodding Draco until he continues up the stairs. “If I don’t, I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again.”  
  
**~*~**  
  
Fortunately for Harry, it soon becomes clear that Hermione hadn’t been anywhere near his house at midnight. The moment he arrives at the Burrow, she dashes over to him and tells him exactly how Ron had climbed through the kitchen fireplace, armed with the miniaturised tree and strict instructions to restore it to size, spell on the lights and return home straight away.  
  
“And what time was that?” he asks, crossing his fingers behind his back.  
  
“Three o’clock in the morning,” she says brightly. “According to my research, that’s when the average person is most deeply asleep.”  
  
Relieved, he hugs her, trying not to become entangled with the little bells sewn into her jumper.  
  
“Good choice,” he says. “And the tree is brilliant. Thank you.”  
  
“Drink up, Harry, you look awfully cold,” Molly says, pushing a cup of mulled wine into his hands as she passes.  
  
Harry sips obediently until she is out of sight. The spicy taste reminds him immediately of Draco and Narcissa, and he wonders how their meal preparations are going. He imagines the scene to be rather calmer than the one in front of him, where various Weasleys are rushing around the kitchen, shouting and spelling items through the air to one another. Harry ducks just in time to avoid a flying cabbage and grins when it sails into the back of Ron’s head and makes him yelp.  
  
“Who threw this bloody thing?” he demands, picking up the cabbage and holding it aloft.  
  
“Language,” Molly chides, bustling past him and taking the cabbage. “Thank you, Ginny.”  
  
“ _Thank you, Ginny_ ,” Ron mocks, pulling a face at his sister and whipping a carrot at her.  
  
Ginny looks around for a projectile and Harry silently hands her an apple from the fruit bowl. This time, Ron catches it, and Ginny groans.  
  
“Behave yourselves,” Molly says. “Anyone would think this kitchen was full of children.”  
  
Ginny sticks her tongue out at her brother and he laughs.  
  
“Sorry, Mum, I have absolutely no plans to grow up,” he announces, picking up Rose and lifting her onto his shoulders.  
  
She shrieks with delight and holds on as he staggers around the kitchen, pretending to drop her at regular intervals and generally making a nuisance of himself. Harry smiles and leans against the wall with his drink, looking around at his family with contentment. Hermione leans beside him and watches the chaos unfold. Soon, the kitchen is stuffed to capacity as the back door opens again and again to admit Bill, Fleur and Victoire, Charlie and his boyfriend, Andromeda and Teddy and several Weasley relatives whose names escape Harry completely.  
  
“Full house this year,” he mumbles to Hermione.  
  
“I know. We’re not eating in here,” she says. “I couldn’t make the extension charms work with all the existing magic. I had to stretch the living room in the end. It looks a bit strange but hopefully there’ll be so much food that no one will notice.”  
  
“Why didn’t you ask me to help?” Harry demands, wounded. “It’s sort of my area.”  
  
Hermione squeezes his arm. “You’ve had enough going on, Harry. Besides, we managed.”  
  
“I’m not weak, you know,” he says. “I’m getting better.”  
  
“I know,” she says, and her smile rubs the sharp edges from his irritation. “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about you and Draco.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry says, scrubbing awkwardly at his hair. “That. I suppose I have been a bit preoccupied.”  
  
Hermione laughs. “You’ll need to try harder than that. Ron and I spent years pining after each other. By comparison, you’ve been very efficient.”  
  
“Thanks,” he says, amused. He glances at her, noting the absence of any pockets big enough for her ever-present journal and pen. “Aren’t you going to take any readings today?”  
  
Hermione smiles into her cup. “I don’t need to.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Just a feeling.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound very scientific,” Harry says, attempting a stern look.  
  
“Never mind science, come and help me get this turkey out of the oven,” Molly says, appearing out of nowhere and beckoning for Harry and Hermione to follow her.  
  
Together, they hoist the gleaming bird out of the oven and carry it into the living room, where an enormous table has been set with flickering candles and crackers at every place setting. When they return to the kitchen, Molly is surrounded by hovering platters and a whirlwind of delicious, savoury smells. She chivvies everyone ahead of her and fusses around the table until everyone takes their seats. When Arthur gets up to carve the turkey, Harry leans over to Ron with a grin.  
  
“Just so you know, when Christmas is over, you have to explain to Draco how the TARDIS works.”  
  
Ron sighs. “Well, I suppose he’s part of the family now, isn’t he?”  
  
Harry smiles. Molly looms over them both with a calculating look and a tray of roast potatoes.  
  
“How many would you like, Harry?”  
  
Harry looks at the potatoes. They are crisp and golden and perfect, but he should only have one or two. After all, there are countless other delicious side dishes on the table and he knows that Molly won’t be satisfied until he samples them all. Still, he thinks, throwing caution to the wind and holding out his plate to Molly so that she can serve him as many potatoes as she sees fit, it _is_ Christmas. He can regret it later.  
  
**~*~**  
  
As he walks slowly up the Manor drive several hours later, regret is very much at the forefront of Harry’s mind. And his stomach. Every step makes him want to groan out loud, but the very idea of Apparation makes him feel queasy, and his abdomen is currently so distended that he doubts he could fit into his fireplace to Floo.  
  
Snow is falling softly now, large flakes landing on his heated face and dotting his coat and scarf. In the distance, he can see the peacocks chasing one another through the drifts and he smiles, remembering the first-years and their efforts to draw diagrams in the thick fog. When he reaches the top of the drive, Draco is waiting for him. Harold, Chase and Peter are scuttling around his feet and he is holding a small bottle containing an opalescent blue liquid.  
  
“You ate too much again, didn’t you?” he sighs.  
  
“Clearly you don’t understand Molly’s secret powers. I think you’re the first person who has ever told her ‘no, I’m full’ and you’ll probably be the last,” Harry says, taking the bottle when it is pushed into his hands. “What is it?”  
  
“It’s a potion. It might still be a little bit warm. I only just finished making it.”  
  
“Okay, but what does it do?” Harry asks, holding up the bottle and inspecting the contents.  
  
Draco wrinkles his nose. “Don’t ask what it does. Seriously. Just drink it.”  
  
Harry looks at him suspiciously, but Draco’s face is open and serene, and all he really wants to do is trust him, so he does. He uncorks the bottle and downs the contents in a single gulp. For a moment, he feels as though his mouth is on fire, but then the sensation fades away, taking with it the pressure in his stomach and leaving him feeling refreshed and comfortable.  
  
“That was amazing,” he says, prodding his stomach and grinning at Draco. “Was that my Christmas present? Because, if it was, I’m seriously impressed.”  
  
“No,” Draco says, buttoning up his coat and stepping close to brush snowflakes from Harry’s hair. “Wait here a moment.”  
  
Harry waits as Draco disappears into the house, shifting from one foot to the other and enjoying the unexpected sensation of lightness. He has just performed a small experimental jump when he catches sight of Narcissa through a window that has been turned translucent by a pattern of swirling, icy feathers. Her shape is blurred, but when she moves, he knows that she is waving to him, and he waves back. A moment or two later, Draco returns, holding onto the lead of an excitable black dog.  
  
 “This is Speranza,” Draco says, walking behind the dog and nudging Harold out of its way with his foot. “Sandrine and I found her wandering in the lane. She was very badly looked after, just like you were, and she didn’t even have a microfiche.”  
  
“A microchip?” Harry suggests, staring at the dog. She stares right back, shiny black eyes laughing up into his and making his heart twist immediately.  
  
“Oh. Yes, perhaps that’s what she said,” Draco admits. “I was rather impressed with myself for remembering that word from Muggle Studies.”  
  
Harry smiles, reaching out to ruffle the dog’s head. “Well, it is a word. But a microfiche is a thing that... well, I remember looking at old newspaper articles on it when I was at primary school.”  
  
“You’re not making sense,” Draco says.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
Speranza lifts her front paws off the ground and pushes her cold nose into Harry’s hands. Charmed, he strokes her and tries to decide just what sort of dog she is. She has the pointed nose of a greyhound and the floppy, triangular ears of a Labrador; her coat is short and glossy, her paws are slightly too big for the rest of her, and her long, whip-like tail lashes at the air as though she is hoping to take off. Harry is no expert, but the sprinkling of white hairs around her muzzle suggests that she is not as young as her energy would indicate, and he wonders if some ridiculous person has simply decided that she is too old to bother with.  
  
“If you don’t want her, she can stay here with me, because if you’re going to have an animal, you have to take care of it properly,” Draco says, and the sternness in his tone drags Harry’s attention back to him. “It’s up to you, but I thought the two of you could be good friends. She’s healthy now but she needs a lot of attention and I thought perhaps she would stop you from neglecting yourself. If you have to feed her, you will remember to feed yourself, you see, and she’s very well-behaved—she can go anywhere with you, including your building projects, and I think she will—”  
  
“Draco,” Harry interrupts, biting down on the laughter that wants to escape. “You can stop. I’m a bit surprised, but I think she’s lovely and I’d love to take her. I’ve never had a dog before.”  
  
Draco smiles, speeding Harry’s heart without even having to try. He hands over Speranza’s lead.  
  
“Now, he will probably need a little bit of training,” he says, and Harry frowns.  
  
“Don’t you mean ‘she’?”  
  
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Draco says. He dodges Harry’s Stinging Hex and scratches Speranza’s head. “Shall we take her for a walk?”  
  
Harry holds the leather lead tightly, and when he looks down into the calm black eyes, something magical passes between them.  Harry is in love. With his new friend, with Draco, with life. Speranza huffs hot breath into the cold air and pulls gently on her lead. Reaching out to link his fingers through Draco’s, Harry follows her. With Harold, Chase and Peter scuttling along behind them, they pass the clinic, the animals recovering in their warm pens, the large shed that will, one day, be finished and the tiny one with the wreath and mounds of hay already rearranged onto the path. They crunch into the woods, where the snowy ground is safe and Harry’s mind is peaceful.  
  
Speranza skitters through snowdrifts and noses at the roots of trees, exploring her new territory with the excitement of a second chance at life. Harry squeezes Draco’s hand and breathes.  
  
**~*~**  
  
_What is this life if, full of care,  
We have no time to stand and stare?_  
  
_No time to stand beneath the boughs,  
And stare as long as sheep and cows:_  
  
_No time to see, when woods we pass,  
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:_  
  
_No time to see, in broad daylight,  
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:_  
  
_No time to turn at Beauty's glance,  
And watch her feet, how they can dance:_  
  
_No time to wait till her mouth can  
Enrich that smile her eyes began?_  
  
_A poor life this if, full of care,  
We have no time to stand and stare._  
  
\-- William Henry Davies, 1911


End file.
